tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10717870927368660432024-03-13T13:43:28.975-04:00Adventures with AnimalsGay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.comBlogger143125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-38424524285829966442016-12-30T07:18:00.000-05:002016-12-30T07:18:01.786-05:00A Tribute to Becky DiNolfiI probably haven't seen Becky DiNolfi for 20-some years, yet I considered her a good friend. Her dear pet pot-bellied pig, Reggie, was the source of our friendship, years ago, when she allowed me the honor of writing about Reggie for my next manuscript, <i>The Celebrated Pet: How Americans Commemorate Their Animal Friends. </i>In talking with Becky about her soulmate, who, (Did I fail to mention?) was of the swine species, I discovered much more than a spectacular swiner, entertainer, therapy pig, and greeter to accepting humans, but I also discovered a prize in human form: Becky DiNolfi herself.<br />
<br />
I didn't know Becky as a best friend would, but I knew enough about her, through her relationship with other people and her pig Reggie, that she was an exceptional human being: a good, good soul; a believer in woodland fairies; a friend to pigs and people who love pigs; a supporter of people fighting city halls to keep their pets in their homes; a dynamic person to all she met. She was always happy, positive, and angelic.<br />
<br />
And, now, truly, she is an angel.<br />
<br />
So, I'm sharing, as a tribute to Becky, my chapter on her pig Reggie, who she loved so much. Becky was so proud of her pig-daughter. They loved each other very much.<br />
<br />
Thank you, Becky, for all you have given and taught us about how to live life bigger and better. I imagine you and Reggie having a happy reunion in a place we all dream about.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
My Dragon Wings</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Species: porcine—pot-bellied pig</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Name: Reggie</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Born: February 26, 1993</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Died: November 5, 2007</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Human companion: Rebecca DiNolfi</div>
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Reggie
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Rebecca’s
eyes flickered open. “Where am I?” she
thought. She peered down the long
expense of white sheet covering her body.
At the end of the bed sat a person in uniform. Becky tried to speak, but a thick pipe filled
her throat, silencing her. Her eyes grew
wide: she was in a hospital with a breathing tube down her trachea. She must have had another heart attack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
nurse went to Becky’s side where she lay, eyes frozen awake. “It’s okay, Rebecca. It’s Monday, July 26, 1992. You’re at <st1:placename w:st="on">Einstein</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Medical</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype>
in <st1:place w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place>
recovering from your catheterization procedure.
Don’t try to talk. I want you to
relax and let this machine do your breathing for you. As soon as we think you’re heart is stable,
we’ll take it out so that you can breathe on your own and be more comfortable.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
closed her eyes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
She
remembered her cardiologist had sent her to <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Einstein</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Hospital</st1:placetype></st1:place>
days ago after she suffered her second heart attack on July 18. With symptoms similar to those of her first
attack in 1991, her local doctor advised she travel to <st1:place w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place> where a catheterization could
determine the point of blockage. Now,
here she was, hooked up to miles of plastic tubing, the air alive with “bleeps”
and “boops” from multiple monitoring
equipment. Something must’ve gone
terribly wrong with the catheterization.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
next day the nurses removed her breathing tube, and Becky’s friend, Joyce, was
allowed into the room. Joyce’s smile
was strained. “We almost lost you,
kiddo.” She took Becky’s hand: it
had no grip. “Your main descending
artery in your heart collapsed after the catheterization. Your heart stopped.” Suddenly the smile tore apart, and tears
rolled down Joyce’s face. Becky reached
down her leg with her other hand. She
frowned. “It’s a pacemaker,” Joyce
said. “And before you feel what’s on
your other leg, a balloon is sewn in there just in case your heart plans to
pitch a fit again, and they have to do another cath.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Did
I die?” Becky said, her lips dry. She tried licking them, but her tongue was
swollen and parched, too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Yeah,
hon. You left us for quite awhile. The doctors worked on your for three and a
half hours and were just about ready to pack it in when they heard a faint
heart beat.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
parted her hospital gown and peered at her chest. Sue’s breath caught in her throat at all the
burn marks. “There’s gotta be thirty
burns here,” Becky whispered, “and my left rib cage hurts like hell. My God!
I did die.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Two
weeks later Becky’s husband brought her home, along with a suitcase full of
prescriptions. Becky could hardly rest
as the doctor had ordered; she was a prisoner to her medication schedule,
consuming 27 pills daily—to treat a bleeding ulcer, high blood cholesterol,
depression, and unrelenting anxiety attacks.
At home, after her husband left for work, Becky watched the clock
indicating the time to take her fourteenth pill. She felt like a jailbird, shackled to her
ailing body and her pill boxes. Too, she
was hesitant to leave her house for fear of having another heart attack or a
panic attack, which came upon her like some banshee from another
dimension. In all, she felt as though
her former spirit had imploded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
only thing partially able to distract from her health problems was her love of reading, particularly books
about pets and animals. After she read <i>Lowell: The True Story of an Existential
Pig, </i>a book about pot-bellied pigs that revealed their keen intelligence
and devotion to their owners, she asked her husband if she get one. He said “yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
For
the first time in almost a year and a half after she had her first heart
attack, Becky could concentrate on something other than keeping herself
alive. After combing the local
newspapers, she finally found a breeder selling a litter of pot-bellied
pigs. Wasting no time, she called: one
little black female was left. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At
four weeks of age, the female piglet was no bigger than a <st1:place w:st="on">Campbell</st1:place>’s soup can. Becky’s first words as she picked up the tiny
black pig, were, “You’re absolutely precious.”
Holding a piglet was so different from a cat or dog. The piglet had heft—solid, with a body of
pure muscle. Becky gazed into her face,
animated by dark, wide, human-like eyes and an energetic, curious nose. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
When
Becky picked the piggy up, she didn’t squirm or squeal, as most piglets do when
their feet leave the ground, regardless whether the lifter is a person or a
predator with the animal in its jowls.
This little female must have had a lot of playtime with people because
she seemed to enjoy lying in a person’s arms.
Becky felt drawn to bring the tiny animal up to her face. When she cupped the piglet under her butt and
brought her to her chest, the piglet climbed higher, finally snuggling her head
under Becky’s chin. That gesture sealed
the deal. So, Becky went home to ready
her house for a new pet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky’s
favorite athlete was Reggie White, and even though the piglet was a female,
“Reggie” became her name. At six weeks
old, Reggie, sat in Becky’s lap for the trip home where she found a sturdy
playpen awaiting her. From the beginning
Reggie hated being confined to the playpen, squealing to be fee so that she
could shadow Becky through the house. At
night Reggie went to bed with her family, Becky curling her arms around her
before they fell asleep, face to face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Immediately
Reggie became Becky’s sidekick. The two
bonded like two pieces of Velcro tape.
Soon they were inseparable: Becky
took the little porker everywhere she went--to the grocery store; the drug
store; the park, where Becky walked Reggie on a tiny harness and lead; the
bank; the shopping mall; and anywhere else.
When Reggie heard Becky’s car keys rattling, she bulleted into the
kitchen and stood still as moss while Becky put on her harness and attached the
lead.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Reggie
sat in Becky’s old Lincoln Continental’s passenger’s seat on a pile of
blankets, her feet propped on the dashboard, her snout pointed straight ahead,
intent on the road. When cars passed on
the right, people went crazy saying, “LOOK!
A LITTLE PIG! A PIG’S RIDING IN
THAT CAR!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
and Reggie spent every hour of every day together, and Becky discovered within
only a week or two, that Reggie was extremely intelligent. So, Becky began teaching her tricks commonly
taught to dogs: she sat up on her hind legs; she kicked a ball into a net; she
walked a figure eight through Becky’s legs; she walked an “S” around a set of
cones; she rang a bell; she played a plastic organ with her nose; she blew
horns lined up on a rack. Reggie’s
repertoire included over thirty dog tricks.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
day as Becky set out the kiddie organ for Reggie to practice her tunes, she
clutched her chest. “Oh, my God!” she
yelled. Her husband came running, and
Reggie stared up at her mom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“What? Is it your heart?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
looked amazed. “Yes. It is my heart, honey. I haven’t given it any medicine yet today
because all I’ve been doing is playing with Reggie. I’ve forgotten to take all my morning
pills. And, come to think of it, I
forgot to take most of them yesterday, too.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
got a what?” Becky’s cardiologist said as she lay comfortably back onto the
examining table.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
got myself a pot-bellied pig. Her name
is Reggie, and she’s my soul mate. I’m
so smitten by her that I keep forgetting to take most of my pills. And I’ve never felt better. Reggie has cured all my anxiety and my
depression. I’ve not had a panic attack
since I got her. I have energy. I’m happy.
I can’t wait to start each day.
I’ve taught her tricks--over thirty of them. Ya know, Doctor, she has given me my life
back. So, do you really think I need all
those pills?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
doctor examined Becky, went over each of her prescriptions, and said, “You’re
pig apparently has been the best medicine for you. You need only take two of these drugs
anymore. Throw out the rest. You look good, and your heart sounds
fine. See you back here in six months.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
day while Reggie was performing her dog tricks, Becky sensed something was
wrong. She just didn’t seem as happy
nudging out notes on the organ and tooting her horns. “What’s the matter, Reggie?” Becky said, laying
a hand on the pig’s back. Reggie looked
back at her, but her eyes weren’t sparkling as usual. Reggie walked over to a horn and blew one
single, blasé “toot” on it, then went back to Becky and curled up in her lap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“You
don’t like these silly dog tricks anymore, do you, Reggie?” Reggie looked her in the eyes. “Well, then,” Becky said, “We’ll get you something to learn that won’t
bore you to death.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
began teaching Reggie the alphabet using huge flashcards. She also began taking Reggie to pot-bellied
pig shows at various fairs and festivals.
Reggie loved showing off in classes such as The Waggiest Tail Contest,
The Snag the Donut Contest, the Watermelon-Eating Contest, and The Pretzel On A
String Contest. On the final evening of
the fair, the pot-bellies dressed in costume for the annual piggy pageant, with
the females in gowns and the boys in black satin cummerbunds and bowties.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At
public events people went wild seeing Reggie decked out in her signature
outfit: a necklace of plastic yellow black-eyed Susans, sunglasses with
black-eyed Susans along the rim, a black-eyed Susan on Reggie’s tail, and a
hat, the front brim pinned up with a yellow black-eyed Susan. Adorned from snout to tail, people begged
Becky to touch and hold the pig, the size of a loaf of bread. Children, especially, were drawn to her
magnetic and charming personality. With
her diminutive upturned snout, she looked as though she wore a continuous
grin. If that weren’t enough to charm
even the most jaded onlooker, Reggie began to perform: tooting the horns, carrying a basket of
black-eyed Susans on her nose, and leaping through hoops.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Mornings
at home, however, were devoted to Reggie’s schooling, including practicing the
alphabet and learning to tell the difference between numbers and colors. In a
week’s time Reggie had learned to distinguish thirteen of the letters from each
other. Reggie found the educational
moments intense, and focused on her studies.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
addition to going to festivals, fairs, various community events, Becky thought
Reggie would also excel at therapy work.
She made world-worn, nervous people calm and anxious teens laugh (pigs
have an uncanny sense of timing), and for even those severely depressed, she
drew a smile. During therapy work,
Reggie’s people skills shined: she stood quietly so that people could pet her,
staying calm if a dish clanked onto the floor and even if one of the residents
pulled her tail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Reggie
loved older folks, so her popularity at <st1:placename w:st="on">Pine</st1:placename>
<st1:placename w:st="on">Run</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Nursing</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype> in <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Doylestown</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:state></st1:place>,
came as no surprise. Escorted to the
community room, Reggie and Becky found themselves in the center of a large room
surrounded by dozens of elderly folks in various states of disrepair. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At
first sight of a pig dressed in a black-eyed Susan costume, the oldsters became
suddenly energized, sitting straight, and expectant. Frowns disappeared, replaced by grins and
bright eyes. A few rolled their
wheelchairs right over to Reggie, who didn’t flinch at the cumbersome,
scary-looking object rolling towards her.
Then one wrinkled hand, then a couple other thin, parched hands rubbed
her head, tentatively at first, then harder, feeling the haircoat--so much
rougher, more bristly, than the typical cat or dog that usually visited.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After
Reggie let all the residents pet her, she performed her dog tricks, which she
hadn’t practiced at home for quite a while.
Though doing her tricks bored Reggie, she accommodated when she was out
in public. The elder crowd, clearly
amazed by such a talented animal, clapped and cheered as Reggie finished her
thirtieth trick and bowed to the crowd. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Back
at home Becky concentrated on teaching Reggie letters of the alphabet. She flashed a card and pronounced the letter,
and Reggie looked hard at the flashcard.
Becky could see she was concentrating.
Becky taught Reggie five letters at a time—all ones that sounded
different—so that Reggie could distinguish the sounds with the different shapes
of the letters. Then, Becky tested her:
holding two cards. When Reggie nudged
the wrong card, Becky said, “No, try again, Reggie.” Then Becky asked again for the letter, and
Reggie nudged the other flashcard, for which Becky rewarded her with a Cheerio.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
a few weeks Reggie had mastered the entire alphabet, even so far as spelling
entire words. Becky asked her to spell
her own name. Becky said, “Spell
‘Reggie,’ Hon.” Then, Becky held out the
“R” flashcard along with an “N” card.
“You want the “R,” Reggie. Reggie
stepped forward and nudged the “R.”
Becky kept showing Reggie two flashcards at a time, one of which was the
next letter in her name. Making no mistake,
Reggie spelled her own name in under two minutes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Reggie
delighted in her mother’s ecstatic reaction when she got her letters
correct. And Becky often marveled how it
seemed Reggie actually was thinking—pausing after being asked to pick out a
letter, then stepping carefully forward and touching the correct flashcard with
her snout. Soon, spelling names was
added to Reggie’s repertoire of talents during her visits to the nursing homes. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
During
the hot and humid summer, Becky hated to take Reggie out into the heat for
therapy work, so she and Reggie stayed inside where they rehearsed numbers and
colors. Summer also gave Becky time for
making Reggie’s costumes, sewn or hot-glued with feathers, flowers, sequins,
and plastic “jewels” —for Valentine’s Day, Memorial Day, St. Patrick’s Day and
all the different seasons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Summertime
also found Reggie’s family camping at Ringing Rocks campground every
weekend. Often, when her parents weren’t
watching, Reggie sneaked off to other parts of the camp, intent on making new
friends. When Becky discovered Reggie
missing, she ran to the campground’s office and asked them to make a
loudspeaker announcement for all kids on bikes to form a posse to find a lost
pig. But Reggie was hardly lost:
grunting at folks and seeming to say, <i>“Hi. I’m the pig.
Nice to meet ya.”<o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
time Becky adorned Reggie in a hula skirt and lei to protest a pig roast at the
campgrounds. Reggie wore a straw skirt
and a T-shirt that read, “We are not the other white meat!” Weekends at Ringing Rocks campground passed
all too soon, and once the hot weather broke, Reggie and Becky were back on the
road visiting the nursing homes, libraries, public schools and hospitals.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
One
particularly memorable moment occurred on a visit to an adult day care
center. After performing her dog tricks
and spelling a couple of the residents’ names, Becky and Reggie were set to
leave and head to McDonald’s for Reggie’s favorite treat-French Fries.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
On
their way out of the adult center, they passed a man sitting in an adult high
chair. He was leaning over his
tray. Reggie stopped at his high chair,
and Becky tugged on Reggie’s leash, “Come on, Reggie. We’re going to McDonald’s now.” But Reggie wouldn’t budge. She stood before the catatonic man sitting in
his high chair, his eyes closed, his head bent.
Becky tugged on Reggie’s leash, but she refused to move.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Soon
a nurse came along. She said to Becky,
“Joe has cataracts. Though he still can
see, he never opens his eyes when he’s inside the building. He never opens his eyes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
pulled on Reggie’s leash again, but Reggie stood firm. Reggie poked the man’s thin ankle with her
snout. No response. Becky pulled on Reggie’s leash. No response.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
nurse said to Joe, “Joe, there’s a pot-bellied pig here to see you. Open your eyes and look at the pig.” But Joe refused, sitting stolid and
impenetrable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Reggie
nudged his leg again and let out a loud grunt.
Finally, Joe sat up, opened his eyes, and looked over his tray at the
floor. Reggie looked up, and when he saw
the little black pig wearing her black-eyed Susan-rimmed sunglasses, he started
to laugh and laugh and laugh. He laughed
so hard tears were coming down his eyes.
The nurse marveled that it had been the first time Joe had ever opened
his eyes inside. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Not
only did Reggie startle Joe out of his blind stupor, but she also performed a
couple of other miracles during her therapy travels. At the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Woods</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">School</st1:placetype></st1:place>,
a live-in facility for the severely disabled, one blind and mute male resident
whose depression made him nasty and difficult to deal with always looked
forward to seeing Reggie. Each time
Reggie saw Stan, she stood up on her hind feet, her front feet on his knees,
and let out a loud grunt-greeting. In
that moment Stan instantly morphed from an unsociable, almost sociopathic
personality, into a friendly personality.
The nurses always commented how Stan was so much happier and so much
easier to handle after Reggie’s visit.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
While
Reggie treated the severely depressed and the elderly by day, by late afternoon
and evening she was back studying her flashcards. In between visits to nursing homes, studying
her flashcards, and visiting schools, Reggie managed the time to earn $15,000
for a charity in a Kiss the Pig contest.
Libraries, too, asked for Reggie’s services, and Becky, with Reggie’s
help, began putting on educational shows.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Each
show began with Becky introducing Reggie to her audience. Like the good, attentive pig she was, Reggie
always greeted her audiences by lifting a front leg and waving her hoof. Then, as Reggie, wearing either her bunny,
Valentine’s Day, Tina Turner, clown, or elf outfit waited, Becky explained where Reggie came
from and what she did as a therapy pig.
Becky always varied Reggie’s performance because she refused doing a
routine that bored her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
As
Reggie performed, Becky taught children and adults the history of the
pot-bellied pig as well as reading them scientific documentation of their
intelligence. She dispelled the myths
about pigs being dirty, slow and slovenly.
Last, she advised her audience on how the pot-bellied pig made a fine
companion animal. She described her
efforts to remove the pot-bellied pig from livestock status and, instead, be
accepted as a companion pet. She urged
audiences to support laws allowing pet pigs companion-animal status.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
The
most amazing feat Reggie ever accomplished was not only identifying numbers from her flashcards but adding and
subtracting them, too. Unbelievable
though it may seem, Reggie, given two flashcards, could add them or subtract
them. Becky herself couldn’t believe
Reggie began adding and subtracting, but it happened, by accident, one day
while they were practicing Reggie’s flashcards in the living room. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
On
a lark, Becky said, “Do you think you can add two numbers, Reggie?” Becky held up a “1” and a “2”. She said, “Do you know what “1” and “2” add
up to?” Then, she held up two flashcards,
one with “3” and the other with “9.”
Without giving any cues, something Becky never anyway, Reggie paused, then
stepped toward the “3” and nudged it.
For sure that had to be coincidence, Becky thought. Surely a pig couldn’t add numbers, so she
tried it again and again. Only a few
times did Reggie make a mistake.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Once
Becky discovered Reggie could add and later, even subtract, she included those
talents in Reggie’s performances. Her
ability to do simple math problems stunned her audiences. Becky reminded folks that since pigs had the
intelligence of a three-year-old child, perhaps it wasn’t all that miraculous
that Reggie was able to do math. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
During
another performance, Becky walked into the audience, Reggie on stage, and she
asked a child to pick out a flashcard printed with a giant colored crayon. Then, after the child picked out one color
from the stack, Becky showed the card to the audience and took that card, along
with one other, back on stage. Reggie
stood waiting on stage. “Now don’t say
the color’s name out loud,” Becky warned the youngster-audience. Everyone was dead quiet. Could Reggie read minds? Then, Becky held that chosen colored
flashcard out alongside one other color.
“OPick the color Cindy and the audience is thinking of, Reggie.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
At
first, Reggie hung back, not too anxious to commit herself to a color she
couldn’t even see. Becky chuckled to
herself. She believed Reggie was
searching for vibes from the audience. A
minute passed, and the audience began whispering, for they could see Reggie
concentrating, too. Then, as Becky held
the two colored flashcards at Reggie’s nose-level, Reggie stepped forward and
hit the blue card. The little girl in
the audience jumped up, squealing, her hands cupping her mouth, and the
audience clapped and cheered. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
By
1995, Becky began fighting city councils’ ordinances against keeping pigs,
considered livestock under <st1:place w:st="on">Pennsylvania</st1:place>
law, as companion animals in city homes.
So afraid was she of losing her own Reggie to an out-dated town law that
she became an avid activist for allowing pet pigs in households. So, while Reggie’s main work as a therapy pig
and an entertainer continued, she also supported, alongside Becky, the fight
against the pot-bellied pig being considered livestock. The more people saw how civilized could be,
the more inclined town council members would be to pass laws accommodating the
pet pig. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Despite
Reggie’s good-natured personality, she was no pushover, neither at home nor in
public. At home she could be a brat if
she didn’t get her way. If Becky didn’t
arrive home promptly to give Reggie her dinner, Reggie, in no subtle way,
informed her of her displeasure: she began flipping the dining room chairs and
rearranging the furniture. If Becky was
talking on the phone and Reggie discovered her water dish empty, she began
rubbing her snout on something, making a loud rasping noise, almost like chalk squeaking on a
chalkboard. When Reggie opened the back
sliding-glass door to go outside to relieve herself, she never closed it,
letting in scores of bugs and, one time, a squirrel. Becky’s friends and relatives all knew Reggie
could be a pistol when she wanted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Even
when she was in public, she wasn’t fawning or subservient. Though she loved most folks, she approached
them with dignity, her head held with pride, an attitude bordering on aloof. For sure Reggie knew she had a higher purpose
and that she was special in many
ways. She loved every minute of her
interaction with people, but she would have no silliness and disliked any tone
of voice that sounded like mockery or as though she was being laughed at.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
On
a couple of occasions, after Becky dressed Reggie in her signature black-eyed
Susan costume and sunglasses, Reggie would rush against a wall, trying to knock
off her glasses. Then picked them up in
her jaws and bit down, breaking them in half.
Reggie was pissed off, but Becky didn’t know why. After Reggie destroyed six more pairs of glasses, Becky finally
called the animal communicator. The
communicator came to Becky’s house and “talked” with Reggie. She said Reggie hated the glasses because she
looked silly in them and people laughed at her.
She wanted people to appreciate her intelligence, so from then on Becky
never made Reggie wear glasses again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
1995 the mayor of Philadelphia, Ed Rendell, was asked to judge a pot-bellied
pig beauty contest in honor of the opening of the Broadway show, “State Fair”—a
show about a pig winning first place at the fair—at the Merriam Theatre on
Broad Street in downtown Philly. The
swiners, all costumed, paraded down a red carpet, performed, and Rendell judged
each for the best costume. Reggie was
dressed in her finest: a sequined gown with a fur stole.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
was also hoping, by introducing Reggie to the Mayor and showing him how
well-behaved and well-mannered she was, that he might use his influence to help
change the law regarding pigs as pets in the city of <st1:place w:st="on">Philadelphia</st1:place>.
To this day Becky is an activist who guides families cited for breaking
the livestock law because they have a pot-belly as a pet in their homes.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
After
their meeting with Rendell, Becky and
Reggie in tow, climbed the remainder of the stairs to the top floor to
“crash” the City Council meeting in session.
Again with Reggie representing the pot-bellied pig community, Becky
intended to convince council members that pot-belly pigs make great pets. But no sooner had they stepped inside the
council chambers than Becky and Reggie were escorted back out. Film crewmen from TV Channel 17 had been
filming the council proceedings and followed Becky and Reggie out into the hall
where, alongside Reggie dressed in her signature outfit, Becky made the case for taking the pet pig out of the
livestock laws.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky’s
cause eventually took Reggie to a Shelton,
Connecticut, courtroom in 1996 for a zoning appeal hearing in which a
decision was handed down to uphold the livestock laws in that town, thus
forbidding pet pigs as companion animals.
The defendant, who was willing to go to jail to keep custody of her pet
pigs, lost her bid against the city livestock laws and was fined $25,000 for
having two pot-bellied pigs. Because she
was unable to pay the fines up front, a lien was put against her house. Though Becky and Reggie were escorted out of
the courtroom, a photographer took their photo standing proudly on the
courthouse steps, a photo which later won the journalist a first place award in
photo-journalism. And the TV news
documentary show, 20/20, featured the <st1:city w:st="on">Shelton</st1:city>, <st1:state w:st="on">Connecticut</st1:state> case in a segment on bad laws in <st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place>. Reggie’s other television performance
occurred weeks later on the TV show, “<st1:place w:st="on">America</st1:place>’s Greatest Pets.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
For
the next several years Reggie continued her therapy work and entertaining in
elementary schools, hospitals and nursing homes. Every night, exhausted from such a heavy
schedule, Reggie fell asleep, as usual, in her mom’s arms, their noses
touching. And every night Becky thanked
Reggie for all she had done to change her life and inspire other people</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Though
pigs may not have wings, Reggie gave Becky wings that allowed her to soar in so
many different directions, all of them positive and beneficial to both herself
and humankind. As Scott, a good friend
once commented to Becky, “Reggie is the dragon, and you are her rider.” Reggie was Becky’s Earth Angel, who protected
her and let her ride along until Becky was able to manage alone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Not
only did Becky and the others benefit from Reggie’s inspiration, but Reggie
earned many kudos for herself. In 1997 <i>Life Magazine </i>paid her a special tribute
in their <i>Celebrating Our Heroes’ </i>Collector’s
Edition<i> </i>by acknowledging her as a
world hero. One out of 2,000 animals to earn the Delta Society’s Animal Therapy
designation and for being one of 28 animals nominated for the 1996 Therapy
Animal of the Year Award, Reggie took her place beside both human and animal
heroes of all time. Among others, Reggie
shared her award with human heroes: Abe Lincoln, Eleanor Roosevelt, Colin
Powell, Amelia Earhart, John Wayne, Mother Teresa, and Tecumseh. And among other animal heroes, Reggie shared
the limelight with the head sled-dog Balto, deliverer of life-saving diphtheria antitoxin to Nome
Alaska; Binti Jua, a gorilla who saved a three-year-old who fell into the
gorilla exhibit at an Illinois zoo; GI Joe, a carrier pigeon that flew a
valuable message to a U.S. airbase in WWII; and Scarlet, a calico mother cat
who carried each of her five kittens to safety from a fire. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky
always credits Reggie with having inspired her to be an activist against
pot-bellies being considered livestock.
Without Reggie she may not even have lived to realize that dream. Though she doubted the abilities of people to
read animals’ minds, she studied the practice herself and now considers herself
an animal communicator. She also works,
on her own, with autistic people. Without
Reggie, Becky claims, she would have been a rather ordinary person.<i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
Reggie
died November 5, 2007.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
Reggie’s
Memorial</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Becky’s
entire house is a memorial to Reggie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Every
wall is festooned with Reggie in various poses: looking up at the mayor of
Philadelphia; peering from the driver’s side window of her Lincoln Continental;
sitting in her mother’s lap; participating in a kissing contest; lying amongst the wildflowers; taking a snack
from Becky’s hand; Reggie and Becky at the drive-in movies; and others. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Tucked
into a corner of Becky DiNolfi’s living room is a memory spot with many, but
certainly not all, of Reggie’s mementoes and awards encircling her box of ashes
with the photo of her Life Magazine Hero honor--her leaning over a barn Dutch
door--her smile as wide as the door opening itself. Various stones and a
pyramidal crystal sit near her box—all meant to protect and help her spirit
transition into the next world. And a
rose quartz stone, signifying love, sits nearby.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
On
another table sit several photographs of Reggie wearing her black-eyed Susan
hat and necklace along with photos of Becky hugging Reggie. Her black harness with her registration medal
from the Delta Society, which she earned on January 1996, sits next to the
cremains box, and next to it, a sculpture of a pig with wings. Nearby sits her flashcards and a ceramic book
and a plaque Reggie received on two different occasions as Random Acts of
Kindness awards.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Among
all the awards and accolades Reggie received during her lifetime, is framed a
poem Becky had written in Reggie’s honor entitled, “The Touch of Love”: </div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
As I lie on the couch
my hand drifts down to feel the rough bristles on my Potbellied</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Pig Reggie . . .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
She is the scratchy
feel of love and companionship that only we can share. . . .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
My Reggie and I have
passed through many trials and tribulations over the years</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
She has taught me so
much about the real meaning of why we are here on this planet. . . .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
She asks nothing in
return for all the love and laughter she abounds. . . .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
She is my Guardian
Angel in a little chubby, black, bristled body,
. . .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
So even though she is not soft and furry,</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
Her heart sure is. .
. .</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
It’s about what we
gave, not what we got.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
In
the dining room hangs an oil painting Becky did of Reggie in the same pose of
the <i>Life Magazine </i>photo. In the bathroom sits various pig figurines,
and in the bedroom hang photos of Reggie doing her flash card tricks during the
Fourth of July show at Big Bass Lake in the Poconos as well of photos of Reggie
peering out from Becky’s decorated pigmobile, the car they used for traveling
to pig events. Also in the bedroom are
photos of Reggie dressed in her beauty pageant gown and meeting Mayor Ed
Rendell again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Reggie’s
entire life--her accomplishments, her personality, her socializing skills, her
intelligence, her love of her mom and other people--is memorialized on most
every wall of Becky’s home because Reggie, a pig who gave Becky her life back
and offered disadvantaged and not-so-disadvantaged people moments of happiness,
deserves a tribute of no less magnitude.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Of
Reggie, Becky wrote, “She made me who I am today and gave me the courage to
persevere under extreme circumstances that I thought would end my life. She gave me a reason to live and get out of
bed every day. We lived an amazing life
together. She brought me in contact with
the most wonderful friends anyone could ever hope to have. I am so grateful she was sent to me to share
my life even if it was for such a short time.
She taught me so much.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“I
have been able to accept the gifts she brought to me. She was definitely my soul mate. She taught me what is really important in
this life and time. She taught me
unconditional love, acceptance, patience, guts, courage. She taught me to laugh, but, most of all, she
taught me how to live my life out loud.” </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-25049549270112875532015-06-21T11:29:00.000-04:002015-06-21T11:29:16.065-04:00A Different Perspective on Father's Day Before I really get into this post, because it's a bit radical, even iconoclastic, though not intentionally, I'd like to wish fathers out there a happy day. They don't all have to be fathers of human children, but fathers that nurture animals, too, happen to be just as valuable and worthy of celebration--in my and many people's minds. So, for fathers everywhere: have a few beers and lots of clams today to celebrate yourself.<br />
<br />
On a sort of different subject and for purposes of letting all my followers, admirers (are there any?), and friends who know me well, I'd like to share a very strange thought I had while driving on Seventh Street yesterday. I was thinking about Father's Day and what it actually meant. Perhaps I was in a strange mood and not very sympathetic to the famous day that was sending those in traffic around me into a tizzy: pulling out in front of me, speeding to Macy's to buy a pair of boxers for dear old dad, and, otherwise, being rude, harried, and in a general frame of mind that was dissing everyone around them simply because they had avoided doing the Father's Day thing until the last second. And now, everyone else had to get the hell out of their way in order for them to buy groceries, presents, cards, and whatever else for dad.<br />
<br />
Okay: I get that part. But, then, in my annoyance with the frantic crowd of last-minute Father's Day celebrators, and stopped at the light at Whitehall Family Diner where a lot of older men were shuffling back to their cars with their families, their bellies full of sausage and pancakes, I began to muse on the real nature of Father's Day--to my own amusement.<br />
<br />
Now, I'm going to relay this hoping no one is going to rip me a new one because of being offended. If you're squeamish, if you're so prudish and so "backed-up" that you can't take a joke, then stop reading. If you want a little guffaw, keep reading. I can't help the way I think.<br />
<br />
So, as I watched, irritated with the traffic, all the men sashaying to their cars in the diner's parking lot, I wondered why all the fuss about Father's Day. Really? Why? Becoming a father, much like a mother, is not anything gargantuan. Most people have done the reproductive thing over and over again. It's really no biggie. Perhaps it should be renamed, I thought. And then my mind began to imagine, and I began to chuckle to myself as the males and their families staggered to their cars.<br />
<br />
I thought perhaps a better wish for Father's Day would be "Happy Past Ejaculation Day!" To me, at that moment and in the mood I was in, the name change seemed legit because, scientifically speaking, most men had ejaculated into a vajayjay at sometime, perhaps in the back seat of a Volkswagen Bus, on a rocky cliff off the beaten path at Hawk Mountain, in a drunk-lust fit in the back seat of a car. You name it; it's been spermed around. And for this Americans set aside a day for celebration?! Okay: whatever.<br />
<br />
(I apologize already for the mental imagery I'm sharing with you and probably isn't appreciated in the same way that I appreciated it--with humor.) I know people out there loved their fathers--so did I--and their fathers are long gone with only memories remaining. I'm sorry for that, and I know your fathers meant the world to you--and me. But in that single, solitary moment I, rather unemotionally, contemplated that concept of Father's Day.<br />
<br />
Anyway, I think I'm onto something that Hallmark had never considered: a Father's Day card that a six-year-old could present to his or her father on his special day. It would say something to the effect of "Happy Ejaculation Day! Thanks for giving me life! You rock, Dad!"Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-76686733474163431542015-05-23T09:25:00.001-04:002015-05-23T09:25:34.044-04:00Chicken ManiaMost people know I live on a farm with horses, one pot-bellied pig, cats, and three dachshunds. I have recently added two peacocks, Fred and Ethel, along with five chickens: Nutty, Ma, Ruby, Barrie, and Blackie. Blackie thinks she's a peacock because she hangs with the pea fowl, but she does do her chicken thing by laying eggs daily. So, if she wants to chill with the peacocks in her spare time, that's her business. Who am I to tell her she's a chicken?<br />
<br />
Up until two days ago I thought the chickens were pretty neat and certainly advantageous because they gift me with eggs daily. Every time I go to their pasture to visit and check their food and water and throw them "scratch," they chuckle at me and run in front and behind, eagerly anticipating their corn treat. They are comical: running, not like an animal that has four legs, but one that has two legs. They run as a human does, their heads bobbing from side to side while they yell and cackle: the most exciting time of the day for them--getting their scratch from their humans.<br />
<br />
But two days ago when I let them out of the chicken pen to graze, Nutty did something remarkable, and her gesture made my week. When she came out of her pen, I tried to pet her as I always do. Heretofore, she skittered from underneath my touch: I was a pox. This time when I proffered my hand, she hunkered in the grass and allowed me to pet her back. And she seemed to enjoy the experience much as my dogs do. So, not satisfied enough that she was allowing me to pet her back, I decided to pick her up and hold her against me. I was surprised that she didn't struggle to get away.<br />
<br />
She let me hold her!<br />
<br />
I can hardly describe the excitement, the flattery I felt from this chicken allowing me to cuddle her. After all, she's only a chicken! Most of us consider them brainless wonders. Certainly they lack the capacity for affection. How many animals do we all take for granted as I did her--not affording her personality or the ability to feel affection? But she certainly does have the capacity for loving and being loved. How cool--a chicken expressing love! <br />
<br />
So, that leads me to wonder about other animals, wild and domestic, and their ability to love a human or, at least, enjoying the simple touch of a human. I wonder about an armadillo and a turtle. Could they feel my loving touch through their hard shells ? Would they respond to me with their own kind of love expression? I know my pigs expressed love by sidling against me, nudging me with their snouts, and lying down next to me on the floor. But, because of a pig's shape and physical incapacity, he or she could not wrap her legs around my neck and plant a big hug on me.<br />
<br />
Animals must express their love in their own ways--according to their physical capabilities and according to how they express affection or companionship to others of their species. Perhaps, if I were a dolphin, another dolphin would swim next to me and nudge me with its nose or flap its tail along my side. And I would respond likewise. And a horse is surely incapable of hugging me--I'd be afraid of being crushed to death in his love-grip. But I do get nuzzles from my horses.<br />
<br />
I have learned that affection is relative to the species meting it out. And I am perfectly fine with that. My chickens are teaching me new life lessons every day.<br />
<br />
The world never ceases to amaze.Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-59882663793362176542015-05-14T08:50:00.000-04:002015-05-14T08:50:00.840-04:00Tribute to SadieThis week many of my Facebook friends have lost family members--furry, feathered, scaley family members, that is.<br />
<br />
I see them grieving; I grieve. Indeed, I feel their pain. Because I have been through it often enough: holding and staring at the dead body of what once had been my warm, loving friend. <br />
<br />
It's tough, I know. Still, I never know what to say to make that person feel better: as though her world will still move on, as though the pain will stop soon, as though there's a reason to live. Sometimes there's not anything to do but bear the misery until time dulls it. The best I can say is, "I''m so sorry." Lame, I know; but it's the best and most honest I can do--because there really is nothing I can say that will make the pain go away.<br />
<br />
So, this week Sadie, the pot-bellied pig, died and left her owners empty, wandering their home in search of Sadie's presence: the surreality of death lingers as they expect their beloved pet to nudge against their legs as she habitually did at each feeding. They hear her trotting around every corner, her little hard hooves clicking happily along the hardwood flooring. Sadie's presence is everywhere, but she's not there.<br />
<br />
Yes, I know that haunting sensation well--dread it, really. I have had upwards of 14 pot-bellies, 7 horses, 20-something cats that I have mothered and accompanied into death through the years. And I have had to endure that pain with clenched jaw, blinding tears, and overwhelming resentment toward a possible god. <br />
<br />
I am so sorry Sadie had to die so young and so unnecessarily. Life continues to be cruel. And I really have no thoughts at this time to ease her human family's hurt. <br />
<br />
I have no words. Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-69276380977907258602014-10-17T18:40:00.001-04:002014-10-17T18:40:02.499-04:00"The Mind of a Cat"I was in the check-out line at the grocery store the other day when a magazine caught my eye: "The Animal Mind: What They're Thinking and Feeling, and How to Understand Them." I grabbed the book edited by Jeffrey Kluger and published by Time magazine and perused the Table of Contents. The subjects were varying, scientific, but, better yet, offered answers to questions I've had about animals all my life. I had to buy it.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
This is a "must-buy" for all animal lovers. Among lots of subjects are "Do animals have minds, as well as brains?" The book discusses grief in animals, their social behaviors, ways animals talk to each other and to us, animal rights, mental illness in animals, and why people feel the way they do about some species of animal. For example, why do most people dislike rats but love dogs? This is a scientific, enlightening book for everyone with a questioning mind and a cat in one's lap, or a dog, or a lizard, or a bird. Or a rat.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
One of the reasons people seem to prefer dogs over cats is because dogs have been selectively bred by humans for a longer time than have cats, which have only been bred for the last 150 years. Instead of being bred for their work ethic or productive exploitation, as with farm animals, cats have been bred mostly for their looks. Perhaps this is why cats seem wilder to us than dogs.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Anyway, as I read further into the chapter entitled, "Inside the Mind of a Cat" by Temple Grandin, she claims that cats are harder to train because, not only are they further down the list on those species most domesticated by man, but they have retained most of their wild nature, in contrast to the dog, for example. So, a cat in one's house behaves similarly to a lion in the wild. Cats, therefore, can only be trained using positive reinforcement, not negative. Using negative reinforcement on a cat will make them fearful and respond by attacking. Being more wild, however, doesn't preclude cats' social natures, for, indeed, cats are quite social amongst themselves and persons they live with. Wild animals are the ultimate existentialists: behaving and doing things because it's "the nature of the beast," or simply because they feel they need to do something in order to exist. Therefore, when they act existentially, which most do, people interpret that behavior as stand-offfish or independent. Rather than their making a concerted effort to be contrary, however, cats are independent because of their wild streaks. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
Another point Grandin makes is that people are socially closer to the species of dogs: dogs create families as humans do, and they communicate like people with facial expressions and through the visual. Their "speech" is variable, too--sound that people can easily interpret. Not only can people "read" dogs, but dogs can "read" people well, too.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
I disagree with Grandin when she says cats do not have expressive faces, largely because they lack eyebrows used for expression. My cats all had and have expressive faces; one just had to recognize the glint of happiness in the eye, the drop of moisture on the grinning lips. But such ability to interpret cats comes naturally to cat ladies like me and people who keep close company with the feline. Grandin recommends that the novice of cats look more at the body stance of a cat than at his or her face in order to discover meaning and feeling.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Grandin gets a few things wrong in this article--from my perspective. And I'm not an animal behaviorist--just a cat lady with a few thousand cats trying to occupy my lap at any one time. I'm kidding. I have just a few hundred, at most. Kidding again. :). She claims that cats seem like autistic children because they are not very sociable and because they have blank faces. She also says that cats don't "read" people well. Mine read me just fine--like a book, in fact. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
Grandin says cats have just as good a sense of smell as dogs and so a cat's preferred method of communicating is through smell: peeing on things and making more subtle smelly deposits from the paws and the glands along the jaw--smells we humans can't detect. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
What I found most interesting in this article is that coat color can be associated with purr-sonality in the cat. Actually, it's probably true with horses, as well: black horses are widely known amongst horse trainers as being spookier and harder to deal with. Having said that, however, my black horse, Lola, is more level-headed than my spotted horse, Bo. Go figure. But, with the cat, a black coat is more laid-back, friendlier, better able to deal with city-life, and can play well with others in a cattery. Overall, black cats are more social. In contrast, Grandin says the orange male cats are more aggressive and shier. Orange cats are scaredy-cats. Of course, Grandin offers a disclaimer that individual cats can be bolder or shier, social or unsocial, regardless of color. <br /><br />
<br /><br />
When adopting a cat, look for a black one, one that approaches you when you appraoch its cage. If the cat allows a person to hold him, that's a winner, and if he plays, he's good, too. If someone acqures a tiny kitten, it's imperative to begin petting and holding him or her by two weeks of age because the best period for socialization of a kitten is week two to week seven. After this the kitten is more likely to be feral. Being handled a lot by different people will cause a kitten to be very friendly toward people.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
So, here's the information I found useful from this chapter by Temple Grandin. I can't wait to read more of this book and share my thoughts with you again.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
I just wanted to mention that black cats, as well as black dogs, are those that are put to sleep first in shelters because people aren't attracted to them, Perhaps more people ought to read Grandin's article because she says black cats are the best choices. Interesting.<br /><br />
<br /><br />
Does anyone have any thoughts on the black cat thing? I'd love to have feedback on this subject.<br /><br />
GayGay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-82764166844748523352014-08-31T11:15:00.001-04:002014-08-31T11:15:05.362-04:00RealmsDid I really have to wait 62 years to discover that a person never really needs a vacation, that all he or she needs to do is experience a different realm in order to escape the daily routine of life? It's true: that was a discovery I made just a few days ago. Since then this word "realm" has been going round and round in my head.<br />
<br />
I don't mean to be sounding philosophical when I analyze this idea of realms; I would just like people to be aware of them so that it doesn't take them 62 years, as it did me, to realize that enjoying a realm, on any level, can substitute for entertainment or escapism. <br />
<br />
Let me be more specific.<br />
<br />
I define a "realm" as a space, place, or time--a mini world--that somehow transports a person from his or her daily routine and offers refreshment, entertainment, and a sense of difference that gives a breath of renewal. For some people, a realm can be as simple as visiting a hospital. One walks through the hospital doors and is immediately ushered into a totally different "universe": doctors and nurses scuttling about, that certain chemical smell pervading the atmosphere, a sense of hurry, urgency. In those minutes we find ourselves in this different space, we are taken out of our normalness, perhaps even out of our comfort zone. But it really doesn't matter if the realm of the hospital takes us out of our normal ease of living just as long as it takes us--period. Eventually we will come home and be back in our comfortable groove. But the effect will have been that, for some moments, we will have escaped ourselves and "visited" another realm. That is good for us. <br />
<br />
I have been particularly observant of the different realms existing around me: ones that I enjoy being a part of of; ones I'm impressed with and wish I could be a part of on a daily basis; and ones that are so different and exciting that I am almost unworthy of their experiences. Of those realms I am just tickled to enjoy a few moments, like scuba diving among tropical fishes and sharks. I would guess that, for most people, vacations to different countries qualify as realms.<br />
<br />
As I said, these realms make us feel different when we are in them; they make us feel special, if only for a few moments. But they all offer renewal, rejuvenation, education.<br />
<br />
Realms that I have experienced of late are the following: walking a wooded trail, making my way to teach on the campus of Lehigh Carbon Community College amongst hordes of students trundling to class. Being in the classroom teaching is another realm for me since I am an adjunct and only experience it two days a week. Other realms for me--as individual for me as for anyone else--are experiencing and participating in a horse show; visiting Ross Mill Farm and Piggy Camp (a rescue for pot-bellied pigs); going to a concert; eating outside at River Walck Saloon; fishing by a creek; experiencing the beach at Sandy Hook Park in NJ; wine-tasting in the Finger Lakes; being at a courthouse and in a courtroom. <br />
<br />
Literally, a realm is a microcosm, a tiny world, in which those people residing inside unfathomably regard their life inside, not as a realm, but as ho-hum daily life. They regard their realm as common, unexciting to them--routine. But experiencing their realm is not boring to me. A realm is a different world from the one I own. It's exciting, different, transporting. A realm affords meeting different people of different nationalities, different interests, different talents. It's a different space with different goals, interests, and ambitions from mine. It's most certainly a different place from what I'm used to. A realm shares itself and its people or animals or whatever with me so that I can learn, enjoy, and feel renewed by it. A realm is something one needs to open himself up to, or the learning experience could slip away, unappreciated. <br />
<br />
Here are more realms--for me: a casino, a zoo, a traffic jam, canoeing on a lake, sleeping overnight anywhere but one's own home. Around here I feel transported--on a temporary vacation--when I visit the Lehigh Valley Zoo, when I walk wooded trails, when I visit the Sands Casino (that is really a different kind of realm, isn't it?). What some people believe is just their work, I consider an enlightening realm: the Kabota showroom; being in a church, a library, an assisted living or nursing home; riding the Strasburg railroad; visiting an Amish farm; going to a fair, festival, a fireworks display.<br />
<br />
These realms take me away: by their looks, their smells, the special noises going on there. All that makes me feel different and a little on edge, "up" or "down" is what I call a realm. It's an experience, whether negative or positive, and its renews and allows me to learn and, therefore, grow. It's starting a new job; it's going on a vacation; it's shopping at a totally new and dazzling place; it's meeting people who share same interests in a common world which I am only allowed to visit momentarily but whose visit enlightens.<br />
<br />
Enough, now, about realms. Recognize them; appreciate them; and grow from their experience. Without them life is a dullard merely trudging along--minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. The realm is a spark in the dark.<br />
<br />
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-79988261319021306242014-07-04T08:58:00.000-04:002014-07-04T09:02:58.287-04:00Duwee Lives OnA dear piggy Facebook friend--yes, a pig--died three days ago and left so many people around the globe feeling empty and heartbroken. Thousands of people, mostly those who have developed a love for the porcine species, myself among them, are in mourning because Duwee Russell Lupton, a Kunekune miniature pet pig who lived in the English countryside, is no longer able to cheer us with his simple barnyard pleasures and his calm, positive personality. <br />
<br />
Facebook is a funny creature that most of us who use it appreciate and like--at times-- and, at other times, find very annoying. People quibble about politics; they complain about their jobs; they brag about their leisure activities and love lives that make the rest of us feel as though we have no lives at all. At other times they are happy, celebratory, and content, but, often, Facebook friends tend to be happy, well: "not so much."<br />
<br />
Whenever a post rolled onto my Newsfeed from Duwee, however, I turned to read it instead of scrolling to another entry. Duwee always, always made me feel good, positive, appreciative of being alive, no matter what was bothering me. He was a pig, after all, who led a simple life alongside Poppy, then Lilli, his chickens, and a goat, and he reported happily and most every day about his Lilli pig who seemed always to be getting into trouble at home, though he related the story with amusement every time. And if one of his barnyard friends died, Duwee took the event courageously, vowing to meet his brother or sister when, at last, he, too, journeyed over the Rainbow Bridge. <br />
<br />
And now he has.<br />
<br />
Of course, I realize that the voice of Doo, as he was affectionately known among his Facebook friends, actually came from his human mom, Sue, and his dad, Dave. It was mostly Sue, I believe, who spoke for Duwee. Duwee's, or Sue's, voice was the voice of kindness, acceptance: one of not taking a simple farm life, or any life, however one lives it, for granted. With each post I could look to Doo for comfort, for contentment, for positive thinking, for acceptance. All of us--his friends--looked forward to sharing in Doo's barnyard adventures. And we were sad when he had problems with his feet and began to age and have seizures. Most of us have been following Doo for ten years or so. To us, Duwee was a daily presence--a bandaid on our lives' wounds--and a soothing voice that subtlely urged us to appreciate and get back to nature, her animals, and the earth he so lovingly turned over and over with his nose. Duwee's voice, without saying so in words, saw the joy,<i> through</i> technology, of turning <i>away</i> from technology: our cell phones, computers, Facebook, even, and living in the simple, precious moment of a fellow creature, whether it be a person or an animal. He encouraged the simple life, love, appreciation of others, especially for pigs and other pets. He was an emotional, supportive force that kept all of us pig people on the right track, the honest track of real life, earthy life.<br />
<br />
What will we all do without Doo? What will we all do without his mom, Sue, speaking through us--guiding us to appreciate and be joyful for each day, each slice of watermelon, every grape, and succulent morsel we bring to our lips?<br />
<br />
The best we can do is live up to the legacy of Duwee Russel Lupton. We can live as though we are all little Doos: joyfully participating in life in all its riches, its flavors, its animals, its nature. Duwee would have us all wallow happily in life, as he did--not complain, not wish away our workdays, not whine about traffic jams or department store lines. <br />
<br />
Duwee would have us lying in the sun, soaking up the warmth and smiling, feeling the good heat on our skin. He would have us relishing each meal as if it were our last one. He would have us enjoying a spider building its intricate net across a doorway. He would have us content, calm, accepting. Duwee would have us be like him: always positive, always looking forward to the next day, the next experience in our human "banyards." And he would always have us wearing a crazy hat--evidence of his humor and enthusiasm for life.<br />
<br />
I surely will miss seeing and hearing about Duwee Russell Lupton's antics on Facebook, but he taught me well. I will try, despite my tendency to err because I <i>am </i>only human and quite flawed, to carry on Doo's legacy of positiveness and enthusiasm for living. I will try to complain and judge less. I will enjoy more walks in nature, not kill a spider simply because it walks. I will be "Doo for a Day"--not simply a day, but for most of my life.<br />
<br />
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Thank you, Sue and Dave, for giving us so much through Duwee. You both know Duwee lives on in each of us, his Facebook fans, and we will try our best to mirror his outlook on life.<br />
<br />
Thank you.<br />
Gay Balliet<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-79651097737552871312014-06-20T12:18:00.002-04:002014-06-20T12:18:55.456-04:00Summer on the Farm from Stewie's PerpspectiveStewie is one of my dachshunds--my black with brown points, long-haired doxie. He's about a year old, and in that year has come to love the adventures on my farm. He loves most everything about it, except for the ticks and fleas, which his mommy has found a remedy for, finally. Anyway, here's a bit about how Stewie and his cohort sister, Annie Mae, view life on the farm.<br />
<br />
Morning:<br />
"It's a new day: things to do, places to go. Who cares about breakfast as long as I see the outside and get to go potty at 6 AM? I wonder what mommy and sis and I are going to do today, but first I must check the manure pile for tasty horse turds. Come on, Annie! Hurry up! There's a big juicy one on the pile this morning!<br />
<br />
"Mommy's picking weeds in the garden, thinning the carrots, admiring the huge red beets, the mounds of lettuce, and rows of onions, beans, cabbages, and garlic. I love to lie under the tomato plants, tree-sized just for me. I help mommy by digging huge holes next to the zinnia path in the vegetable garden. There's very good evidence that badgers reside here, and I need to protect the family.<br />
<br />
Afternoon:<br />
<br />
"Annie! Let go! We can't both be playing with one stick! And we live in a woods, so you can get your own! <br />
Anyway, now that mommy's done in the garden and is weeding the vinca in front of the house, we can take a nap in the shade of the old golf cart. I don't know why she doesn't want to play with our stick, but she's so focused on pulling weeds she doesn't seem to want to play. I even brought her a branch more her size. We can never roam far because she seems to instinctively know when we are on the scent of a squirrel, and then she hollers at us. And once I tried chasing a cat, and, well, that didn't go over very well. I sat in the house the rest of the day, and I don't like to be in the house. I'd rather be outside. My sister, Annie Mae, doesn't mind very well, so I must lead her back to the house from time to time so that mommy doesn't worry.<br />
<br />
Evening:<br />
"Mommy looks so tired. Normally she's very pretty, but after a day working on the farm, her hair is matted, and her fingernails are stained with dirt.<br />
<br />
"She eats her salad in my big black chair in the living room, and she's watching this black box on the wall that talks and has people inside it. It's a very weird thing. She gets very upset and yells when this one guy comes into the box and starts talking and swiveling his head from side to side. And his ears are even bigger than mine. She sounds like she's screaming 'MAMA!" but he doesn't look anything like my mama. I don't often see my mommy that angry--except when I chew the squeaky ball out of my new toy. After mommy calms down and that man is out of the black box, Annie and I try to look pathetic and starving as she puts forkful after forkful of food in her mouth. If I try to lick her plate, she barks at me. I know she is as possessive of her food as I and Annie Mae are. I better back off before she begins to growl.<br />
<br />
After Annie and I eat our meals, we climb into mommy's lap. She cuddles with us, but I can tell she likes me better than Annie Mae. She talks to me in a low calm voice, and I cradle myself in her arms while Annie licks her face. Sometimes, when Annie licks her, she yells. I don't know why, but then she frantically rubs her lips and spits like one of the house cats. Yet, through it all, I know she loves us because she shows her teeth, and her lips are drawn back, the corners raised.<br />
<br />
Soon after mommy takes her bath, she will ask us to "Kennel up," and we will be so obedient and climb into our crates for the night. I'm actually glad to abide because I'm doggone tired from all that weeding in the garden. Whoever said a dog's life was easy was dead wrong--we dachshunds have it 'ruff, ruff, ruff' living on a farm where we must play and sleep all day long. <br />
<br />
So, people, I will see you in da morning!"<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-21785201364745791812014-02-28T16:03:00.002-05:002014-02-28T16:03:56.264-05:00The White VoidWith a foot of snow and ice on the ground and a supposed twelve more inches coming this weekend, I have planted my garden seeds--all sex flats of them--in anticipation of spring and summer. They sit, ready and filled with water, waiting to burst forth into seedlings. Then, when I see the first appearance of cabbage, basil, cilantro, tomatoes, squashes, and red beets I will know there's hope. .<br />
<br />
While the snow looks beautiful as it falls, the after effects are daunting--our footing precarious, driving treacherous, spending unnecessary monies for plowing the driveway, buying way-too-expensive fuel oil, keeping all the animals warm and safe. As well, my horses haven't ventured out into the far-out pastures: too icy even for four-footed ones that weigh a thousand pounds. Oh, God: deliver us from this misery, they seem to be thinking as they stand outside in the only ray of warm sunshine--a prelude of spring, wherever she may be hiding.<br />
<br />
So, I make this entry with bits of seed soil under my fingernails, and I hope that, somehow, this nasty storm while spare us. But if it doesn't, I will tend my seeds tucked comfortably into their soil, spray a fine mist over them, talk to them hoping that they can hear and may put extra effort into germinating and giving me a ray of hope in this dismal white world.<br />
<br />
Everyone keep warm and safe.Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-89932611843082194892014-02-18T08:49:00.000-05:002014-02-18T08:51:55.345-05:00Meg<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
I could wring Death around her shriveled black neck for torturing my friends and me without remorse, without consideration, without reason. It seems she, or is it a he, randomly takes our human and pet friends, willy-nilly, from us--as though she's entertaining herself or trying to remind us all when we are having a "good run" in life that we shouldn't get too enthusiastic because she's right around the corner ready to spring another attack on us.<br />
<br />
Death is the grand spoiler. She interrupts, spoils, disrupts, and shocks. She is the ultimate Shock Jock. And I hate her. We all hate her.<br />
<br />
Recently she stole my Ricky cat, and I can smell her hovering over my two old, arthritic <span style="text-align: center;">horses. And, who knows? She may even have her vacuous eye on me as I drive, as I shop, as I sleep. One never knows when or where the spoiler will next appear.</span><br />
<br />
Just two days ago she came to my friend, Mare's, house and stole her cat, Meg--Mare's best buddy for 20 years and 4 months. She came stealthily, leaving little signs for months, like mouse turds in a cabinet, that she had an eye on Meg. As Meg's appetite grew slimmer and slimmer, Mare knew Death was stalking her friend. She did all she could do to stave off the rancid devil, but she showed up for an overnight visit the other night.<br />
<br />
And that was the end of Meg.<br />
<br />
I post Meg's picture here so that not only my friends can appreciate Mare's cat for her loyalty, her affectionate nature, her lust for life, but also so that Death can see it too, if she's on Facebook, Twitter, or reads my blogs. I want Death to know that she fails in so many ways. She fails because we all have the ability to remember our loved ones and pass on their memory to others who may remember and pass it on to still others. She fails because in our various ways, many of us prepare memorials to the one who she's taken from us and, therefore, keep that dead one alive. She fails because, through science and good medicine, we mortals can often hold her back until she comes at us with a vengeance. She fails because we eventually triumph over our misery.<br />
<br />
Death, you loser, Be Not Proud!<br />
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<br />Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-59208356998531893192014-02-16T14:51:00.000-05:002014-02-16T14:51:15.265-05:00Tough Times This WinterAs everyone knows, winter has beaten most of us down with all her snow, ice, and frigid temperatures. I'm not whining--just stating facts sure to show up on a Gallup poll. The falling snow ceased looking wondrous to me weeks ago. Most of us are about done in after paying excruciatingly high fuel oil prices and paying the guys to plow out our driveway. And many of us, including myself, have fallen on ice. My ankle and thigh still sport a lovely oil-slick purple bruise. We are winter-poor and winter-weary these days.<br />
<br />
As I sit here trying to fight my way through Twitter and Facebook--I'm of an older generation that has to learn social media by the hit-or-miss method--the deer are gathering outside my window for my meager offering of corn. Yes, I feed the deer; they've had it rough this winter, too. Their life is difficult--way more than mine, I guess--having to avoid getting shot by hunters in deer season and now by poachers in non-deer killing season, bedding down in the pouring, freezing rain, and having to nourish themselves when most of their food is under two feet of snow. And their water sources are frozen-over, forcing them to cross dangerous highways to travel down to the river. It's not an easy life. So, I've begun to try to make their lives just a bit easier by putting out corn. <br />
<br />
Every evening around this time the herd approaches, stealthily--never at ease, never able to thoroughly enjoy a meal in peace and quiet as I do. No, the deer are constantly on edge, fidgety--they know to watch for two-leggeds with guns, cars, and bad intentions.<br />
<br />
What they don't know is that I do not, or ever will, carry a gun to kill them. I am their feeder, their nourisher. I just hope to fill their bellies and make one afternoon a bit easier for them. <br />
<br />Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-49874593719839125522014-02-08T17:27:00.003-05:002014-02-16T14:10:18.569-05:00The Disabling of America<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> Forgive me, if you can, for getting on my soapbox about the devolution of my America. I am upset about the direction this country is going under Obama's autocracy, and I must have my say. Most Americans are suffering these days: fuel oil is over four dollars a gallon; food prices are inflated; jobs are scarcer than a flea on a pig. A US citizen can hardly stay warm or even eat decently these days, and many of us don't have a pot to piss in because we're scraping to pay taxes that are unreasonable, at best. It's time the suffering stops for the middle class, for we are the only ones up against it right now. So here be my cathartic piece, if it's nothing else. Hereafter I will limit myself to goodies about animals. </o:p></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
The Disabling of
America</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
have no physical limitations, yet I am a disabled American. I have been robbed of my sight, hearing, and my
ability to speak. I am struck numb by
Obama’s fundamental transformation of America.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I am nearly blind. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
My
America had become almost unrecognizable: a President consumed by radical
ideology, dreamy-eyed by visions of a Euro-America--a socialist nation in which
an individual’s instinct to compete and reach for the American Dream is drowned
out by cries of “redistribution of wealth.”
What little I can see of this administration is frightening:
self-proclaimed Communists and Socialists within the President’s advisory
groups, associates of the President with criminal records--co-founders of
radical, anti-capitalist terrorist groups of the 1970’s. I do not see a President proud of his traditional
America values, for he apologizes to foreign nations for America’s foibles, as
he interprets them.. I do not see a
President who loves America and her unique Constitution. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
rub my eyes, but all is blurry. I hardly
recognize my fellow Americans either. Where
are those people who cherish competition, higher education, and creative
entrepreneurialism? Where are those Americans
who would rather tough it out than receive a hand-out from the government? Where are the Americans who express their
patriotism freely, proudly, and are willing to protect, at great cost, this
country from terrorists and enemy nations?
Where are the Americans who stand proud against dissatisfied youth,
ingrates, and jealous foreigners? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
rub my eyes: I vaguely recognize some of these Americans in the distance, but the
vision is dimming fast.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I am deaf. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
don’t hear our representatives in Washington defending our Constitution. I don’t hear them opposing Obama, the
ideologue, or questioning the legality of his decisions. Yet within the silence sounds a roar:
concerned citizens at town hall meetings--trying to be heard, trying to make
sense of a huge deficit and health care bill that is a lie set in stone, one
which jeopardizes their very lives. American
citizens everywhere are being silenced by those that have elected them--chastised
by Congressmen and women and Ms. Pelosi who has called them “disruptive” and “un-American”
because they are speaking freely and protesting according to their Constitutional
rights.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I am a mute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
open my mouth to protest but fall back in silence—out of fear—fear that no one
will listen, fear that I may be Big Brother-listed against the current regime,
fear that a radical may retaliate against me and all that is dear to me. I must be quiet for lurking in a corner hides
a lout who has never understood how America came to be free and who does not value
individual freedom and who is intent on leveling and fundamentally changing society. Silent for fear for my life, I have,
overnight, become a charge of a totalitarian state.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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I am blind; I am deaf; and I am
unable to speak, but I am hardly alone. At
this moment, many Americans have been disabled by this President’s shrewd,
hidden agenda. Despite this government’s
employment of smoke and mirrors, we have one quality left with which to fight
and find hope:</div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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We can still feel. </div>
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Even
while our America is gasping under the murky waters of the Obama administration,
I hope and feel that Americans--black, white and Hispanic--will demand to speak
and be heard. Americans united will see that
before we are any color, we are first Americans—rugged individualists—who
resent being hand-held, regulated, and controlled by any government and who
expect elected officials to uphold the Constitution.</div>
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We
Americans are NOT European: we don’t WANT to be as Europeans, failing to thrive
as individuals under socialist governments.
We Americans are not wired that way.
We are wired to think, question, and judge all criteria against the
values of freedom, democracy, and capitalism.
</div>
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<br /></div>
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What
can we, as disabled Americans, do?</div>
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Overcome
the disabilities—the outright lies-- and stand firm, as firm as our forefathers
did. Hold our representatives and the
President accountable for insuring our individual rights and freedoms, and our
RIGHT to pursue happiness. Protest with vigor and commitment the equalizing
and socializing of American society because with the leveling of classes comes a
wider class gap and the loss of individual freedom.</div>
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If,
after that effort, we find ourselves more blinded, deaf, and more afraid to
speak, we must revolt as our ancestors had to and seek freedom afresh. We must clean house—the White House. We will demand the resignation, if not,
impeachment of this President and his hatchetmen. </div>
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<br /></div>
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As
this current administration seeks to disable us, we must stand united against
it, armed with the Constitution and our stamina as Americans.</div>
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By Gay L. Balliet</div>
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-89492444667228734682014-02-07T13:03:00.000-05:002014-02-07T13:03:03.182-05:00The Companion PigThe snow and ice in the Northeast has been a bit more than annoying this winter, but it did help me out. I became housebound for enough days to finish a book which I have written under a pseudonym and which won't be mentioned much until I get some guidance from my agent and publisher. Yes, it is that good and that secretive. It must remain unwhispered until I find out how to deal with some things inside its cover.<br />
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I also completed a handbook for potential and current miniature pig companions. It's working title is THE COMPANION PIG. I cranked it out in fewer than three months with the help of my friends and contributors Susan Magidson, Jeannie Watson, Dr. Arlen Wilbers, and, of course, my agent Diana Flegal. Without them the book would have been rather skeletal. But it is finished now, and it is in Diana's hands. We shall see how enthusiastic the publishers will be for it, but I know there's a bunch of readers out there who are in desperate need of an all-inclusive book on how to care for piglets and adult pigs. And I know, too, that lots of pig humans (I cannot call them "owners" because pigs do not allow themselves to be owned as dogs and cats do.) would appreciate a book that guides a reader on how to re-train an aggressive piggy. THE COMPANION PIG attempts to do it all.<br />
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In the meantime I'm heading outside to muck horse stalls and probably fall on the jagged ice for the umpteenth time. And if I have another creative idea spring into my mind, I will begin authoring another book. At least that will be a safer journey than the one outside. <br />
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The picture posted here is by pet photographer, Dennis Gillette, who photographed my friend, Sheryl's pig, Pee-Wee a few years ago. Pee-Wee is giving me one of his famous kisses.<br />
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Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-69229055007616145152014-01-31T17:15:00.001-05:002014-01-31T17:15:17.578-05:00Guest Blog: Kimberley Nelson's fundraiser for Fort McMurray animal shelter<div dir="ltr">
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Here's a guest post from Kimberly Nelson, an animal rescuer and fundraiser. After she adopted her dog, Rolo from the local shelter in Fort McMurry, she did a Christmas fundraiser. In 2013 she asked friends, family, and the community to help her out. Here is her tale of success.</span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">Today is my 26th Birthday and what better way of sharing my special day then
sharing the total for Our Christmas FMSPCA Fundraiser of 2013. Why do I love
Fort McMurray.. Well look below!</span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: small;"> </span>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">First off I want to give a Big Thank YOU to all of the people who
contributed to our Christmas Fundraiser by either purchasing an item, donating a
wish list item, donating bottles or even just spreading the word about our
fundraiser. A Big shout out to my Mom, Auntie Cathy and her dad George for
taking time out of their lives to make handmade bone ornaments to sell with
proceeds going to the fundraiser AND THEY DONT EVEN LIVE IN FORT MCMURRAY. As
well as the lady my mom knows and her daughter in BC who made the fleece tied
animal toys from my mom’s scrap fleece and my good friend Nicole Robinson who
held a Zumba fundraiser for me with the proceeds going to our total. My goal
this year was to collect wish list items and sponsor 3 kennels as last year I
only collected wish list items. I thought this was a great goal as sponsoring
the 3 dog kennels alone would cost $600.00.</span></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="color: black;">This needs to be written in Caps Locks..WITH ALL OF YOUR HELP WE
WERE ABLE TO SPONSOR NOT 3 KENNELS BUT 7 KENNELS AS WELL AS PURCHASE SOME WISH
LIST ITEMS WITH THE LEFTOVER MONEY. This truly makes my heart melt knowing how
generous the community is. I love Fort McMurray and those who don’t should take
a look around at all of the amazing people we have here who give so much to
those who need it.</span></span></span><br />
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<span lang="EN" style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="color: black; font-size: small;">Our
2013 Christmas Kennel Sponsorships
include;<br />Toby<br />Moose<br />Chillo<br />Lexi(now at Edson Animal Rescue
Society)<br />Georgia(Adopted)<br />Ginger<br />My favorite Tripod, Triumph(Adopted).
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<span style="font-family: georgia,serif; font-size: medium;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: magenta;"><strong><span style="font-family: arial narrow,sans-serif;">Kimberley Nelson</span></strong><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: black; font-family: arial narrow,sans-serif;">Confessions Of A Rescue Mom</span><br /><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: black; font-family: arial narrow,sans-serif;">"Blogging About All Things Animal &
Adoption"</span></span></span><br /><span style="font-family: arial narrow,sans-serif;"><u><strong>Facebook:</strong></u> <a href="http://www.facebook.com/rescuemomblog" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://www.facebook.com/rescuemomblog">www.facebook.com/rescuemomblog</a><br /><strong><u>Blog:</u></strong>
<a href="http://www.confessionsofarescuemom.com/" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://www.confessionsofarescuemom.com/">www.confessionsofarescuemom.com</a><br /><strong><u>Twitter:</u></strong>
@RescueMomBlog</span></span></span></div>
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Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-23899493581997459212014-01-07T13:03:00.002-05:002014-01-07T13:03:33.535-05:00Service Animals: Helping is Saving<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Here is a guest blogger, Cindy Romero, who has written an article on service animals I think you will all enjoy. Thanks. Gay</span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Our
pets are hardworking, and willing to do anything to please us, but can they also
keep us safe? Besides the Seeing Eye dogs we all know and love, there are many
other service animals that keep their masters alive, well, and happy every day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><br /></span></div>
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<b>Mental Health Therapy
Dogs<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Let’s start with what most people commonly express about
their pets: they are therapeutic for their mental health. My pets know when I’m
sad, and they do try to cheer me up whether it’s snuggles from my cats or
energetic kisses from my dogs (my bunny remains adorably oblivious but that’s
okay). Our <a href="https://www.petpremium.com/infographic/what-your-pet-says-about-you.html">pets
can say so much about us</a> and can also be a very therapeutic part of our
lives. Among the different types of animals we keep as pets, dogs seem to be
best at helping us when we need them most. Among those that are so appreciated is the certified
psychiatric service dog.</div>
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Besides helping autistic children with emotional, social,
and communication skills, dogs are also great for people with depression and
anxiety disorders, as well as those with developmental disorders. The
unconditional love and dependency of a dog can boost a person’s mood more than
anyone would think. <a href="http://www.mentalhealthdogs.org/Mental-Health-Service-Dogs.html">According
to MentalHealthDogs.org</a>, the many benefits of specifically-trained-for-you
therapy dogs include the following:</div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Increased sense of security, self-ability,
self-esteem, and well-being and purpose</div>
<div class="ListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Relief from loneliness and isolation</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Structure and healthy habits</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Optimism</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Uncomplicated, dependable, and safe relationship</div>
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<!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;">·<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: 7pt;">
</span></span><!--[endif]-->Motivation to exercise and interact socially</div>
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Even if someone doesn’t have a trained mental health service
dog, snuggling with his or her pet helps lower the hormone, cortisol, a stress
hormone urging to engage in either fight or flight. And lowering one’s cortisol level is always
beneficial.</div>
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<b>Diabetic Alert Dogs<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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These therapy dogs can quickly alert diabetics to the severe
spikes or drops in their insulin levels, some of which can be life-threatening.
<a href="http://online.wsj.com/news/articles/SB10001424127887324001104578163423121970336">The
Wall Street Journal</a> suggest that the dog’s acute sense of smell, its
accuracy and speed for detecting low blood sugar does a better job of detecting
impending a diabetic crisis than do many medical devices. Scientists don’t know what it is the animal
can detect, but these dogs (retrievers, generally) smell it. Once alerted by his or her canine friend, a diabetic
can then take steps to manage their blood glucose levels, which can save a life
and prevent serious complications.</div>
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<b>Seizure Alert Dogs<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Similar to the diabetic alert dogs, these dogs are trained
to warn their caretakers of an on-coming seizure. <a href="http://science.howstuffworks.com/zoology/mammals/dog-predict-seizure1.htm">How
Stuff Works</a> maintains that animals are highly sensitive to subtle physical
and biological signals that humans don’t notice. Assigned to those with
epilepsy, a dog can tell when the seizure is on its way and will warn the human
by pawing, barking or circling and trying to get the person to lie down in a
safe place. The dog will then lie beside or on top of the person to make him or
her feel safe and prevent them from injuring themselves. How loving and
responsible is that? </div>
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<b>Other uses:<o:p></o:p></b></div>
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Reading therapy dogs and even school counselor assistance
cats and dogs are also helpful in the classroom setting, making children more
comfortable and less aggressive toward others (for more information on therapy
animals, click <a href="https://www.petpremium.com/pet-health-center/training/animal-assisted-therapy/">here</a>).
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Animals provide a heartfelt and enthusiastic service to so
many appreciative people.<a href="" name="_GoBack"></a>
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<span style="background: white; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">J</span>anuary
29<sup>th</sup> is Seeing Eye dog day. Celebrate all service animals on this
day, and let your animals cheer you up a
little bit more for an extra treat.</div>
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I’m <a href="https://twitter.com/CindyCalico"><i>Cindy Romero</i></a><i> a writer on all things pets. I have
a high jumping cat (Sebastiana), a beautiful black lab (Shadow), a calming
retriever-lab (Teddy) and a feisty Himalayan bunny (Ruby) that all roam around
the house.<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-85094138323440529982013-08-24T10:11:00.000-04:002013-08-24T10:11:13.198-04:00Gay's Ring-of-Fire Chipotle SalsaWith tomatoes coming out our ears this time of year, now's the time to can lots of salsa to enjoy time and again throughout the winter. If you have a cheap smoker, you can make your own chipotle chili peppers, which are smoked jalapeno peppers.<br />
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1. Prepare green or red jalapeno peppers as follows: Remembering to wear latex gloves and not rub your eyes or face during this preparation, take 70 or 80 jalapeno peppers and remove the stems, cutting a vertical slit in one side and sliding a finger inside each to remove the white membranes and seeds. Don't separate the two halves, or they could fall through your smoker's grates. <br />
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2. Stack jalapenos in a smoking machine (Little Chief or any smoker) and smoke, using wet hickory or mesquite wood chips. Smoke the peppers for about 12 hours, replace spent chips with fresh wet ones every hour and a half. Chipotle peppers are done when they turn from bright green to olive green and are slightly wrinkled. Seventy to eighty chilis will fill about 3/4's of a storage gallon bag of chipotles.<br />
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Making the salsa:<br />
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1. Using a tupperware dishpan or other big dish, fill with about 30 to 40 pounds of roma or regular tomatoes. Remove the skin by throwing the tomatoes into boiling water for about 30 seconds or as long as it takes for the skin to peel off easily. Remove the skin and discard the seeds by prying them out with your fingers. After the tomatoes are skinned and de-seeded, put the tomatoes through a processor on "chop," or chop them by hand.<br />
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2. Put the chipotles through the processor.<br />
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3. Put the chopped chipotles and tomatoes in a huge stewpot and simmer.<br />
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4. In large saucepan, heat about a quarter cup of canola or olive oil. Chop and add 4-5 large onions, 4-5 green peppers (not hot ones), a whole head of garlic or more if you really like garlic, a large bunch of fresh cilantro (use less if using dried), lots of fresh or dried basil, and fresh or dried oregano. Simmer spices and onion mixture until limp. Add this mix to the tomato and chipotle stewpot. Stir.<br />
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5. Add more spices to the pot according to your taste: Adobo seasong (2 tsp.), turmeric (1 tsp.), cumin (1 tsp.), ground oregano(1 tsp.), salt (2 tsp.), black pepper (2 tsp). Mix and taste salsa. Adjust the taste by adding more spices.<br />
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6. Add approximately a quarter cup of red wine vinegar to the stewpot and allow the mixture to simmer off most of the water for half a day, stirring every half hour.<br />
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7. To can the salsa: Sterilize 16 to 18 pint jars in a boiling water bath for ten minutes, along with lids and screw caps. While the salsa is hot, ladle it into the jars, hand-sealing each one. After the jars are all filled, put them back into the boiling water bath and boil for ten minutes.<br />
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This is my own recipe, and adjustments for taste will be required, as well as adjustments to the volumes of the peppers and tomatoes. Use your own judgment. And you may need fewer or more canning jars, as well. All is approximate. But you will have fun doing it and a good product for fall and winter snacking.Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-26188435710457881282013-04-12T12:26:00.000-04:002013-04-12T12:26:46.917-04:00The Hardest DecisionOne of the hardest things we animal lovers do is have to make the decision to put a dear pet to sleep. <br />
My dear pig-friend, Ivy Mae, has been diagnosed with a tumor in her sinuses. My pig doctor, Dr. Arlen Wilbers, who is the top pot-bellied pig vet in the area and who, I might add, is the most compassionate veterinarian I have ever met, advised me a few months ago when I had called him out to look at Ivy, that we would know it was time to euthanize her when she stopped eating.<br />
The tumor growing in Ivy's sinuses has forced her to breathe from her mouth for the last month or so, but I certainly didn't expect to see fresh blood oozing from one nostril yesterday. I cringed when I saw it, and as she walked, the blood dribbled between her front feet onto the barn floor. And last evening she refused her food.<br />
This morning she refused her breakfast, too. So, I called Dr. Arlen, discussed the possibility that it was "time," and set the appointment to put her to sleep for this afternoon. Then I emailed my best friend, called my mother, explaining to both about Ivy. And then I called the excavator to bury her. <br />
After I hung up, I went out to the barn to be with Ivy Mae for one of the last times in her life of fourteen years. I carted with me a box of butterscotch Krimpets--her last meal, if she would take it--and the second she heard me tearing the cellophane wrapper, she looked up. Because she had not eaten her breakfast, I didn't have great hopes she would eat the cake. But she surprised me. The blood had stopped running from her nose, and she opened her mouth, a happy smile across her face. I gave her the Krimpet. She swallowed it in seconds and then begged for more. She still had an appetite--at least for junk food.<br />
Then and there I decided to give her at least the weekend to live--to be ecstatic eating butterscotch Krimpets. She is not suffering; otherwise, I'd have allowed Dr. Arlen to still come out. Instead, I cancelled the euthanasia and the burial: Ivy has a few more days to live while I lace her Krimpets with higher doses of steroid in the hope it will reduce the tumor's growth. While I know that the tumor will prevail in the end, I want to extend Ivy Mae's precious life as long as I can. She is not suffering; therefore, I will hold out. <br />
Every day of a life lived is a day that should be cherished. Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-69039889735104422692012-12-07T12:20:00.001-05:002012-12-07T12:20:43.300-05:00My Friend EvieHurricane Sandy did a number on my house: the largest tree in my woods fell on it costing my insurance approximately $200,000 in damages. I want to thank and recommend Erie Insurance for being so concerned about me and my place; they couldn't have been better to deal with nor more accommodating. <br />
I also want to thank Stellar Construction and, in particular, Tony Stellar, for his and his crew's timely response, as well as Brian, the general contractor lining up all the sub-contractors and workers in a timely manner, from taking the tulip polar tree off the house and getting the second story re-framed, roofed, shingled, dry walled, and spackled. Dave is upstairs right now putting on the second coat of spackle on the ceilings over three bedrooms, the bath, and the staircase. Yep, the tree caved in my whole upper story.<br />
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As if the hurricane hadn't caused enough misery, my favorite cat, Evelyn--Evie--suddenly went missing. Evie is my feline house companion and has kept me company on many a lonely night. She also watches "Family Guy," "Wipeout," and "Impractical Jokers," an absolutely hysterical show on Tru TV, with me in bed nearly every night. <br />
<br />
Two days ago I had last seen Evie looking at me, her eyes wide, from the living room. Evie is a shy girl, and silly and not-so-silly things scare her. She is like a lot of us humans: when we get upset, we often don't use our heads. Seeing all these strangers in her house and hearing them hammering, yelling, and spraying insulation into the second story must've sent her off her little feline rocker. Late that evening when I noticed her absence, I called through the house: no Evie. Perhaps, I thought, she had run outside as the men were carrying in the dry wall. I had had to close the doors several times after them, so the distinct possibility existed that she could have escaped to the outside. I called outside, but she didn't come. I still thought that she was hiding somewhere in the house, but if she was outside, I hoped she would find a half-decently warm place--perhaps the barn--to spend the night and come back in the morning.<br />
<br />
The next day I checked all the rooms and closets in the house: she was nowhere inside. So, I began my search outdoors. I trekked through the woods, the nearby fields, down to the barn across the street, and down to the neighboring woods: no Evie. During my search, I imagined all kinds of horrific things happening to my favorite cat: coyotes got her, she struggled in a trap, she ran and became lost in the hundreds of acres of fields surrounding my woods. The horrific images crawled through my head like a nasty ticker tape. By the end of the day, I was exhausted, having checked everywhere imaginable, including the basement for the fourth time. One thing I knew for sure: she wasn't in the house, and she wasn't in my woods.<br />
<br />
My little friend Evie was gone.<br />
<br />
Last night the space on the bed comforter where Evie belonged was eerily empty. Tears dribbled down my face as I imagined life without my black long-haired buddy. This morning I dressed and went downstairs, opening the front door to the deck where, when Evie tired of playing outdoors, she always stood ready to come inside. No Evie. I called, and a few other barn cats ran to the door, but Evie wasn't among them.<br />
<br />
Later this morning while Dave the spackler was spreading his stuff on the dry wall, he overheard my telling my agent and publisher about losing my best friend: my cat was missing and feared dead. When I got off the phone, he mentioned that yesterday the dry wallers said they saw a cat run into the access hole leading to the crawl space above the dining and living room. They had meant to tell me but forgot. I ran upstairs, pried open the hole, and Dave shown his light around the sea of white insulation which they had re-sprayed yesterday.<br />
<br />
There, in a far corner, two black ears peeked out of the insulation. They belonged to Evie!<br />
<br />
Dave tried to hold me back from going right in there and trampling down the insulation to get to her. He recommended I let the access door open in the hope that she would eventually come out. But I knew she was scared, and while I had her in sight, I wanted to get her before she disappeared again. But this time I listened to the advice--sort of. I leaned into the attic space covered with the ocean of insulation and called softly to my feline friend. After several minutes of coaxing and rattling a cat food can, she began to walk along the back edge of the attic space. In another moment I had her in my arms. I guess she wondered why I was hugging her so tightly.<br />
<br />
Then I brought her downstairs, fed and watered her, and she walked calmly away, cottony insulation clinging to her shiny black fur.<br />
<br />
I was so happy I didn't know what to do with myself. For sure I thought she was dead, hung up in an awful animal trap or eaten by a pack of coyotes. I had had my most precious Christmas gift delivered early, for sure. And, then, as I got used to the idea of having my Evie back home safely with me, I thought about the horrible death she would have suffered had Dave the spackler not told me about the dry wallers' conversation yesterday. She would have starved to death up there: cold, without water or food, locked and withering away in that crawl space--one long day after long day and one long night after long night.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness Dave overheard my conversation with my agent and publisher. Thank goodness Dave cared enough to tell me about my cat. <br />
<br />
Thank goodness a Christmas angel was watching over Evie. <br />
<br />
And me.<br />
<br />
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Merry Christmas, everyone!Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-48616069182785438272012-09-17T09:53:00.001-04:002012-09-17T09:56:07.526-04:00Beware the Brown Recluse<br />
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I have always loved all animals,
from the most innocent kitten to even having a deep admiration for the Great
White Shark. And though I’ll never ever see
a Tibetan snow leopard in my lifetime, I can appreciate its mystique, its ability
to elude capture by the most avid, paparazzi wildlife experts. Ever witness via TV, newspapers, or personal
experience to the atrocities man and womankind have perpetrated against others
of the Earth’s creatures, those not of homosapien origin, I reserve respect,
tolerance, and, yes, love for these animals who prevail despite human
annoyance. Though admitting to killing a
few mosquitoes and flies in my lifetime, I cannot exterminate a stinkbug, the
alien-spaceship-looking insect that commits, with a <i>Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, Br-r-r-r-r-r, </i>its kamikaze flight into
my wall at night. Indeed, I have held
nothing against snakes, beetles, or spiders--until now. I may need therapy: I am in deathly fear of a
particular spider—one I have never met or ever care to—a brown recluse spider. </div>
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Never
in a hundred years would I have ever thought I’d be intimindated by a member of
the Arachnid family, having always laughed and mocked girlfriends and guy
friends who cringed at sight of an innocuous bug. What fun I had making them
feel silly that a human of 150-some pounds could fear an insect weighing a
million times less than they did. And to
prove my fearlessness, I would pick up the daddy-long-legger in the palm of my
hand, as my friend scream-ran into the next room, and place him outside in a safe
place so that my cats wouldn’t find him.
I was protective of spiders whose ilk was bearing the burden of being a
pox on nature.</div>
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In
the last week, however, I must break out of my web of affection for all things
eight-legged. I do now fear for my life
a creature I have never seen or been bitten by.
It haunts my dreams, interrupts my farm work with possible visions of
its clandestine workings in a barn corner, grinds my calm to a screeching halt
whenever I walk into a common spider web while walking my woods. This Arachnid, my experience with which has
only been through an acquaintance, now holds my bravery towards all things
insectile, hostage. Visions of a recluse
spider crawling stealthily from under my boxspring at night, its hairy jaws
flapping and salivating, honing in on what surely to him must look like a tasty
morsel--my rump—interrupt my sleep. I
lie awake like Poe’s paranoid narrator in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” listening,
fearing the inevitable, ready to tear up the floorboards to finally expose, not
my guilt, but a murderously-poisonous monster. </div>
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My
fear has no real base, I readily admit, but my life has been impacted by a bite
to a worker who was scheduled to take down a dead, sixty-foot tree that would
surely come down on my house in the next thunderstorm or blizzard. The man dropped his “bucket truck” on my
property two weekends ago in anticipation of beginning the tree removal the
following Monday. But that Monday Joe
never showed, his truck, with a boom and a wood-chipper attached, loomed large and
ominous in my front yard. </div>
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By
Wednesday afternoon I phoned him to see what was the matter. He told me the news in a dead-serious voice:
he had been bitten by a brown recluse spider one night while he slept on his
pillows.</div>
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“A
spider?!” I marveled, ready to laugh.
“You’re not taking down my tree because a spider bit you!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Joe
said, “I’m afraid so. Listen, I am in
agony—can hardly even walk! A week ago I
was bit. I didn’t think much of it—sort
of like a glorified mosquito bite. I’ve
been putting over-the-counter stuff on it for all this time, but it’s been
getting worse and worse. I ended up in the emergency room last
night! Right now I have a red, swollen
welt on my shoulder, and it hurts like hell.
I have a fever, am a bit nauseous.
I’m sorry, but I just can’t come out there to cut down your tree. I’m on antibiotics and some other shot a
doctor gave me. And I’m telling everyone
I meet to google “brown recluse spider” because these bastards are out in
force, only coming out at night when you’re sleeping. Did you know their bite can kill you,
especially if you’re old or are a kid and if you have a weakened immune system.
I’m a strapping guy, so it should go
away with all these meds I’m taking, but others need to look out. This is <i>one
nasty spider</i>; it’s a <i>predator</i>,
and it takes no survivors.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Joe’s
voice shaked as he clarified the recluse’s portrait: fiddle shape behind the
head, long, choppy jaws—“All the better for eating you, Honey”—long front legs
spread out to the size of a silver dollar.
He continued, “They come inside during the fall and take up in cluttered
corners of the house. Their web is not
nice and symmetrical, like some spiders’, but it looks more like a cobweb. Even their web is nasty-looking!”</div>
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I
cringed, worried that one could be taking up residence under my bed. Other than that, I had little clutter around
my place. Still, if a brown recluse
wanted a piece of me, he’d be able to find a suitable hideout, I was sure.</div>
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“Seriously,”
Joe said, “I’ve never had so much pain in my life. I’m telling everyone I meet to get insect
killer and spray it all around the house—outside and inside. This spider <b>can kill</b> people, especially if it bites close to the heart. And I’m not the only one who’s been bitten by
a brown recluse lately—seems everyone I meet has been bitten, especially
lately. They’re out in force! I’m advising you to call an exterminator and
have him treat your whole house for brown recluses. Trust me: you don’t want to get bitten by
one. This is the worst pain I’ve felt in
my life!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
I
commiserated with Joe for awhile, wished him luck in healing up his spider
wound, and hung up the phone, glancing into every corner in the office in
search of a cobwebby spider house. I saw
none, but it didn’t make me feel any safer.
The bedroom would need a careful inspection, too.</div>
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For
another week Joe’s tree-cutting truck sat, a continual specter, before my
house. Every morning I expected to see
Joe drive up in his car, wave, and get out his chainsaw, but he never
came. So, after the week had passed, I
called him again—to make sure he was still alive.</div>
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A
weak voice answered, “Hell-o-o-o.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Joe,
is that you?” I said.</div>
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“Yes,
it’s me.”</div>
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“You
sound awful.”</div>
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“I
am worse. I went to the emergency room
again last night, and they switched the antibiotics. You should see the spider bite. It’s raised up about a half inch, it’s black,
like it’s dead tissue underneath, and there’s a huge red ring around it,
too. I feel just awful—am really sorry
that I haven’t been able to get to your tree.
But I just can’t. I can’t move my
shoulder, let alone climb a tree and use a chainsaw. This bite really has me worried. If I’d have been old, I’d be dead from it by
now. Did you get your house sprayed for
spiders yet?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“No,
I didn’t. Can’t afford it right now,” I
said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Well,
you need to. If you get bit, you’ll know
what excruciating pain is like. Those
bastard spiders are pure evil. I’ve been
battling this thing now for three weeks, and it’s not getting any better. I’m really scared!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Joe,
don’t worry about the tree. Get to it
after you get over this bite. I googled
the brown recluse, but it’s hard to tell it apart from others. And my woods is just loaded with all kinds of
spiders. I’m sure I’ve got recluses,
too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Well,
I caught two of them in my bedroom,” Joe yelped. “I killed the bastards, too. I’ll bring one along when I get to your place. Then you can watch out for them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
“Yeah,
that would be helpful,” I sighed
uneasily.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
Another
week has passed; Joe’s truck sits stolid, unmoving, in front of my woods. I should call Joe to see how he’s getting
along, but I can’t stand any more cautionary tales of the brown recluse. I’ve already developed a morbid fear of the
animal—a characteristic I would never have thought I’d own--and I haven’t even
seen one or been threatened by any. On
any day I deal with animals twice and ten times my own weight: my pot-bellied pigs and
the horses. I have no fear of them or
sharks in the ocean or other insects, reptiles, and such. But I must admit that every night finds me,
like Poe’s tell-tale victim, with one eye open, on guard, looking, watching,
one eagle-eye gaping in anticipation of a hungry, hairy hellion on eight legs. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet">www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.gayballiet.com/">www.gayballiet.com</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.adventureswithanimals.blogspot.com/">www.adventureswithanimals.blogspot.com</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.facebook.com/glballiet">www.facebook.com/glballiet</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.twitter.com/GayLouiseBallie">www.twitter.com/GayLouiseBallie</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<a href="http://www.goodreads.com/Glballiet">www.goodreads.com/Glballiet</a></div>
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-19091826098422273782012-08-29T20:30:00.001-04:002012-08-29T20:30:48.871-04:00<br />
<div align="center" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #555555;">Hummingbird<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" style="background: white; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #555555;">David Stearman<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #555555;">I’ve always loved
hummingbirds. There’s something mystical about them. Maybe it has to do with
their diminutiveness, or their seemingly spiritual manner of movement, I don’t
know, but I’ve always found them captivating. I feed them. I photograph them. I
study them. As a result of all this, my new novel Hummingbird has just been
released. The back-cover blurb goes like this:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<i><span style="color: #555555;">“She feels like a misfit. Who is she? Where does she
belong? Is she Lexa, Alexandra, or someone else?<br />
Forced to commit a crime, she flees south of the Border–and a vindictive bounty
hunter follows her.<br />
Will she escape? Find redemption? Learn who she really is and where she
belongs?<br />
The answer lies hidden in a tiny seaside village where wandering hummingbirds
rest their wings.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #555555;">Here’s the video
trailer: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JTmiXISuKnE<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #555555;">Now you might ask, what
does a book about a criminal-on-the-run doing on Gay’s blog? Here’s the answer:
my protagonist Lexa’s life, and the little coastal town in which she lives, changes
dramatically through her interaction with hummingbirds (not to mention the
eighteen-foot shark she adopts and names “M.C. Hammerhead.”) In fact, Lexa’s
life becomes entwined with them to the degree that the villagers begin calling
her <i>Colibrí,</i> which is Spanish for
you-know-what bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 12.0pt;">
<span style="color: #555555;">So
if you like Hummingbirds, feel free to check this story out. It’s a sometimes
sweet, sometimes scary, always uplifting read I think you’ll enjoy. You can
find it on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and iBooks etc. Here’s the Amazon link: </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hummingbird-ebook/dp/B008QMSBW8">http://www.amazon.com/Hummingbird-ebook/dp/B008QMSBW8</a>
</div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
David Stearman</div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Facebook <a href="https://www.facebook.com/david.stearman">https://www.facebook.com/david.stearman</a></div>
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Twitter: <a href="https://twitter.com/DavidStearman">https://twitter.com/DavidStearman</a></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Amazon: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008QMSBW8/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk">http://www.amazon.com/dp/B008QMSBW8/ref=tsm_1_fb_lk</a></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Goodreads: <a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6454021.David_Stearman">http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6454021.David_Stearman</a></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Pinterest: <a href="http://pinterest.com/davidstearman/Facebook">http://pinterest.com/davidstearman/Facebook</a>:</div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Blog: <a href="http://davidstearman.wordpress.com/">http://davidstearman.wordpress.com/</a></div>
<div style="background: white; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
Ministry Website:
http://www.davidstearmanministries.org/</div>
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Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-46531680044849197612012-08-27T10:25:00.001-04:002012-08-27T10:25:23.210-04:00Guest blogger: Pola MuzykaHi there, fiction suspense lovers. My name is Pola Muzyka and I've been writing
on-the-edge novels for quite some time now. Two of these novels are set to
release this year in four volumes. Find them at Amazon Kindle, Barnes &
Noble and ebook stores throughout the world. <br /><br />The release began with
<i>Abducted to Kill</i>, Volume I, The Terror Regime. <b>Purchase at Amazon: <a href="http://amzn.to/OAh1My" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://amzn.to/OAh1My"></a><a href="http://amzn.to/OAh1My" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://amzn.to/OAh1My">http://amzn.to/OAh1My</a> or Barnes
& Noble <a href="http://bit.ly/NY7HDq" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://bit.ly/NY7HDq"></a><a href="http://bit.ly/NY7HDq" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://bit.ly/NY7HDq">http://bit.ly/NY7HDq</a> or other fine
ebooks stores.<br /><br />See what AssistNews press has to say about me and my work:
<a href="http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm"></a><a href="http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm">http://www.assistnews.net/Stories/2012/s12080129.htm</a></b><br /><br />Be
on the lookout for three more books planned to release before fall falls. They
are: <i>Abducted to Kill</i>, Volume II, Sleeper Cells; <i>The Freedom
Inside</i>, Volume I, Delicate Cargo, and <i>The Freedom Inside</i>, Volume II,
Sober Vigilance. <br />--------------------------<br />Today, I write about
strongholds, but my life wasn't always this intense--it was worst. As an
actress, model, and producer I was on the edge most of the time, so naturally my
writing follows suit--it keeps you moving forward. My books, <i>Stronghold
Smasher Suspense, where faith and hope shine a light on evil</i>, unravel some
of the basic laws of spiritual defence. Hope you'll delve into them and discover
how others overcome evil and how you, too, can be prepared for the unnatural
disasters of this world while you learn about the world that lies
beyond.<br /><br /><i>Okay, now onto the good stuff:</i> I'm going to share
something with you that may surprise you--I was raised on a sheep farm. My
mother loves animals and if she didn't marry Dad, she probably would have become
a vet. She would take out grubs from rabbits chewing at our lettuce, nurse lambs
rejected by their mother in the back of our coal stove, bandage wounded birds
and keep them safe until they could fly again, take splinters out of the paws of
dogs, cats, and sometimes us when we were small. She would walk down our country
road with three or four sheep, cat, dog, and chickens following. Course we
tagged along as well--there were four of us, and we were dubbed, the Muzyka
animal parade. Mom lives alone now, but not without an animal or two tugging at
her pant leg. She keeps fish in a bowl and large pond on the property, feeds the
birds more than they need, and even has a horse or two trotting through the
grounds every now and then.<br /><br />Life on the farm may have ended for me but
life living with animals never ended. Even today, as I write, a little squirrel
or chipmonk comes up to my window and peeks in as if to say, "come and play
today". Hmmm. He's not speaking to me, but to my cat. If he only knew. Tuxedo
would love to play, too, but not as he expects. <br /><br />Hope you animal lovers
can find the time to get a copy of my books and the books of my friend, Gay, who
is posting this blog. Thanks for reading my work. God bless all y'all--that's
Georgian for all of you. Until next time, by from Pola, Tuxedo, squirrelly and
chipmunk.--Pola Muzyka<span style="color: #888888;"><br clear="all" /><br />-- <br /><b>Pola Muzyka</b><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>Visit </b></i></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href="http://polamuzyka.com/" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://polamuzyka.com/">Writer's Notes by Pola</a></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><i><b>Or visit
</b></i><b><span style="color: #660000;"></span></b><a href="http://www.strongholdsmashers.com/" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://www.strongholdsmashers.com/"><b title="blocked::http://www.strongholdsmashers.com/">POLA'S BLOG, Stronghold
Smashers</b></a></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><b><i><a href="http://amzn.to/OP2tnz" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://amzn.to/OP2tnz">Abducted to KIill�</a> </i></b><a href="http://polamuzyka.com/wp/the-freedom-inside/" target="_blank" title="blocked::http://polamuzyka.com/wp/the-freedom-inside/"><b title="blocked::http://polamuzyka.com/wp/the-freedom-inside/"><span style="color: #660000;" title="blocked::http://polamuzyka.com/wp/the-freedom-inside/">The Freedom
Inside</span></b></a></span><br /><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><a href=""><b style="color: #000066;">Stronghold Smasher Suspense--where faith and hope
shine a light on evil.</b></a></span></i><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: xx-small;"><br /></span></span>Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-7259147359894952512012-08-22T10:29:00.003-04:002012-08-22T10:29:17.911-04:00My Cat and Corn on the Cob<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-align: justify; text-autospace: none;">
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 21.0pt;">My
Cat And Corn On The Cob<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;">I love corn on the cob. I especially love it
when my brother-in-law buys it, my mother-in-law shucks and silks it, and all
that is left for me is a quick 4 minute boil. Yes, only 4 minutes is
needed to bring this wonderful creation of God to its perfect point of consumption.
In my opinion, corn on the cob is the perfect addition to most any meal.
Show up at my house around dinner time, and you run a fairly good chance of
having this tasty treat.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;">While eating on the sofa one evening, our cat,
Carson, found the smell of corn on the cob to be quite interesting. He
came up to my plate, sniffed, and decided to stick around for a few
minutes. This is unusual for a cat. Most cats are not interested in
any item for an extended period of time, so his interest in my corn intrigued
me. When I looked away for a moment, he actually tried to retrieve the
corn from my plate! I was shocked. He has never shown interest in
table food. Being the loving mother I am (just ask me – I’ll tell you!),
I gave him the cob. Oh my goodness did he have fun. He took it to
the front door rug, flipped it in the air, rolled it on the rug, chewed its
wonderful remains, and smiled. Yes, he smiled. He was so happy with
a corn cob! Who would have guessed?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;">I think we
can learn from Carson and his corn cob fun. He didn’t require a store
bought cat toy. He didn’t even require a fresh ear of corn. He was
quite content with the cob only. I hope I am good at enjoying life as
much as Carson is at enjoying corn cobs. Life is full of wonderful
opportunities to stop, smile, laugh, and show enthusiasm. Think about
that this week. Find the good. Find the happy. Find the
unexpected. Toss something in the air and laugh. It feels SO GOOD!
Come back next week and Listen To My Brain Rattle.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;">Carol
Howell is from Rock Hill, South Carolina.
Her book, <i>If My Body Is A Temple,
Why Am I Eating Doughnuts?, is available on Amazon Kindle and Barnes and Noble
Nook. </i></span></b><a href="http://www.carolhowellbooks.com/"><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;">www.carolhowellbooks.com</span></i></b></a><b><i><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 16.0pt;"> </span></i></b><i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-41381209533750669092012-08-21T10:59:00.003-04:002012-08-21T11:01:46.058-04:00Kitten Love<a href="http://www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet">www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.gayballiet.com/">www.gayballiet.com</a><br />
<br />
Life is a bit of a struggle these days as I run my gentle-lady’s
farm by myself. The grass keeps growing;
the horses keep eating but can’t gorge down enough grass to begin to keep the
pastures tidy. I’m trying to be true to
my truck patch engulfed in weeds, but writing, riding, mucking horse stalls,
fixing fence, and dealing with other things that go wrong here on a daily basis
is getting in the way of “putting up” my specialty garden produce such as
salsa, spaghetti sauce, and sauerkraut.
But I’m trying as best I can and am adamant that all the summer work
here won’t get the best of me.</div>
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The other
day as I was mowing around the horse pastures with the farm tractor, I noticed something black amidst the sea of
green. <i>What is that? </i>I thought, shocked.
The mower continued to purr, slicing the stalks behind, and I stopped
the tractor and squinted at the dark lump.
A black and white kitten, no larger than a Campbell soup can, lay
there. I jumped from the cab, leaned
over the fence, and scooped the kitten into my arms. He looked up at me with pitiful, glassy
eyes. It’s backbone protruded. I ran down the driveway, into the house, and
set him on the kitchen counter, where he lay, looking drawn and disoriented.</div>
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Always
prepared for a kitten or wildlife emergency, I went to the freezer for the KMR
(Kitten Milk Replacer), which had always come in handy for raising baby
raccoons and abandoned kittens that people dumped at my door. This kitten had been left just inside my
horse pasture—in the hot sun. Had I not
noticed it, the poor soul would have died there overnight or been carried away by
a night creature as a meal. Thank
goodness I had seen it. In minutes the
kitten was sucking frantically on the titty bottle I had had tucked away in the
medicine cabinet.</div>
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Afterwards,
I wiped the kittie’s face, lay him on a blanket, readied a litter box, and
walked back down the driveway to finish mowing.
And then I had a fleeting thought: <i>There’s
never one kitten in a litter. Where’s
the rest of them? </i>Dread washed over
me: I couldn’t afford to add one more animal to my critter family until the
divorce was settled. What if more
kittens needed my help? How would I
afford them?</div>
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Before I
got back into the tractor cab, I looked up and down the fence line on the inside
of the split-rail fencing. My guts sank:
two more kittens curled together on a pile.
So, I ran them into the house, fed them, and lay them next to the other
kitten. </div>
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As I
continued with my mowing, I wondered who had planted those kittens in the pasture
next to where I had been mowing. Surely
the culprit had seen me driving around, had noticed that as I drove I had to
keep an eye on the fence-line so as not to hit it with my wheels or the finish
mower behind. Whoever the kitten dumper
was knew that I’d be looking in that direction and would probably notice the
black kitten-lumps amidst the green, like red rescue rafts amid the blue
ocean. </div>
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And whoever
left those kittens for me to raise had a decent heart—a soft spot for those
babies, so vulnerable, so weak, so undeserving of death by drowning or being
taken to a kill-shelter. Whoever it was
knew that I would sustain them and allow them life, even at my own expense.</div>
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That
afternoon as I was taking a break on my swing, a truck pulled into the driveway. A man carrying a white plastic bucket stepped
out. He said, “I have something for
you?” I didn’t recognize him. I stood up, went up to him, and he tilted the
bucket for me to see inside: two more kittens.
I looked at the guy, cursed him—a total stranger. After all, I wasn’t the local humane shelter,
and now my kitten stash would add another five cats to my already burgeoning
feline crew. But I knew if I’d refuse
them, he’d probably leave them somewhere to die an excruciating death. So, I reached into the bucket and took them
into the house.</div>
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Over the
past week, my five charges have thrived under my care. In fact, two of the kittens found a good,
loving indoor home, thanks to other good-hearted angel-people. The other three remain with me and always
will if I cannot find good homes for them.
</div>
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No one—not
any human or any creature—should suffer a life unloved or uncared for. Existing without love is worse than having a
leaky roof or little food. No one should
have to endure lovelessness. I believe
it is that concept that the owner of the kittens realized, and that realization
prodded him or her to place them at my doorstep. And my dear friend, Terri, who put out
feelers to her relatives and to their friends realizes, too, that all creatures
deserve love and a chance at life. I am
so grateful for having a wonderful friend like Terri in my life, one who cares
and loves innocent creatures. And I’m
lucky to have met, through her, a whole team of good folks who came together to
make good things happen for these kittens.</div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zJhk59F7X3M/UDOh2iRJ38I/AAAAAAAAAQA/MacEYp41hp8/s1600/kittens5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zJhk59F7X3M/UDOh2iRJ38I/AAAAAAAAAQA/MacEYp41hp8/s320/kittens5.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
<a href="http://www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet">www.amazon.com/author/gayballiet</a><br />
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Thank you,
Terri and Steve, Brandy and Joe, and Christen and Ryan for caring about and
carrying out this kitten adoption. Your
actions will not go unrewarded. Those
kittens will continue to entertain you and love you in return for many years.</div>
Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-67776747671134061422012-08-20T17:51:00.001-04:002012-08-20T17:52:04.966-04:00<br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">What is Dystopian Literature?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">When I set out to write the America II trilogy,
I wasn’t thinking in terms of a genre, especially not a genre within a genre.
Sci<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=1071787092736866043" name="_GoBack"></a>-fi-speculative-futuristic-political-thriller-dystopian
and all those labels were something I hadn’t anticipated. I merely entertained
the idea: If societal trends that exist today continue full speed ahead, what
would the world look like in 2073?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Then someone reviewed my book and called it
dystopian. Someone else said it reminded them a little of Hunger Games, a book
I hadn’t even read. I’ve heard other writers refer to their book in the same
manner. So I did some research, and sure enough, America II falls within the
definition of Dystopian Literature, although, it really is vastly different
than Hunger Games, though it does contain some of the elements commonly seen in
Dystopian books.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">With the onset of the wildly popular <i>The Hunger Games</i>, dystopian literature
is now the fastest growing preference in young adult fiction. Some experts
argue the reason is because today’s young people are disaffected with today’s
culture. They see little hope on the horizon. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Such was the climate of George Orwell’s 1984,
written in 1948, a poignant story of a totalitarian government, a few years
following the end of World War II. People were frightened of the growth of
communism as well as the advent of the Atomic bomb. Hysteria and fear were
rampant. World War II vets, returning from their service, could not get jobs.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">C.S. Lewis’s Chronicles of Narnia, written post
World War II, also explores this loss of hope in the world as it is an allegory
of the fall of mankind. Narnia was once Utopia (The Garden of Eden) but became
Dystopia, ruled by an evil Snow Queen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">With a stagnant economy, housing crunch, and
wide unemployment, not just in America but world-wide, I wonder if we have not
grown into another aura of paranoia regarding our future. Hence, the resurgent popularity of Dystopian
topics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Dystopia is derived from the Ancient Greek and
means a bad place. By definition, Dystopia is the opposite of Utopia which is a
derivative of the </span><span lang="EN" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Greek word meaning place and sounds like the
English homophone (eutopia) which is derived from the Greek to mean good or
well. In combination then, Utopia, has come to mean a good place</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">. Utopia is often thought
of as Heaven on earth, paradise today, where the world lives in peace and no
one dies of hunger. Where there is no such thing as crime. In the classic, <i>The Time Machine,</i> a scientist creeps
into the future to see if the world can cure its ills. He stumbles upon a
seeming Utopia until he realizes human beings are being raised as food for
underground monsters. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">According to Wikipedia, Dystopian literature has
these in common: <i>idea of a society,
generally of a speculative future, characterized by negative, anti-utopian
elements, varying from environmental to political and social issues. <o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Most Dystopian themes will characterize society
as oppressive or totalitarian. While the world seems dark and unappealing to
the reader, the minor characters or society sees nothing wrong with the way
things are. There is generally a character or characters that is dissatisfied
and wants things to change. Therein is the conflict, the character pitted
against society, like Don Quixote, flailing his sword at windmills. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Other classic dystopian literature includes: <i>Brave New World</i>, <i>Fahrenheit 451</i>, and </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Iron_Heel" title="The Iron Heel"><i><span style="color: windowtext; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">The Iron Heel</span></i></a><span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="background: white; line-height: 14.4pt; margin-bottom: 6.0pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 4.8pt;">
<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Unlike most Dystopian themes, and
more like Chronicles of Narnia, America II: The Reformation offers hope for an
improved society. It also reminds the reader of God’s continued interest and
involvement in the affairs of His creation. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">A native of Central New York, Linda Rondeau met and
married Steve Rondeau, her best friend in life, and managed a career in human
services before tackling professional writing. After thirty-four years of
marriage, they have relocated to Jacksonville, Florida, leaving rural America
to live in a city of one million.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><br />
While writing is her greatest passion, the more favorable temperatures of
Florida allow her to follow another great passion--golf.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Linda is the wife of one patient man, the mother of
three, and the grandmother of nine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">An award winning author, L.W. Rondeau first book, <i>The Other Side of Darkness</i> (written
under Linda Wood Rondeau), released Fall 2012, and won the 2012 Selah
Award for best first novel. <i>America II:
The Reformation</i> is L.W.’s debut sci-fi book and is the first of a
futuristic, political thriller trilogy. A prequel is planned in the form of
serial editions.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">America II: TheReformation is available on </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/America-II-The-Reformation-ebook/dp/B008CGFVUI/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1345413612&sr=8-1&keywords=america+ii+the+reformation"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Amazon</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"> and </span><a href="http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/america-ii-lw-rondeau/1111630075"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Barnes and Noble</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">You can reach L.W. through </span><a href="https://twitter.com/lwrondeau"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Twitter</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">, </span><a href="http://www.facebook.com/booksbylindarondeau"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Facebook</span></a><a href="http://www.facebook.com/booksbylindarondeau"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">, Goodreads</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">, and </span><a href="http://www.linkedin.com/profile/edit?trk=tab_pro"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Linked In</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">. Soon to be on PInterest. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Or visit L.W.’s website: </span><a href="http://www.lindarondeau.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">http://www.lindarondeau.com</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">Blogs</span><a href="http://geezerguysandgals.blogspot.com/"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;">: Geezer Guys and Gals</span></a><span style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial; font-size: 9.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1071787092736866043.post-43983270278209207472012-07-29T17:54:00.001-04:002012-07-29T17:55:07.765-04:00<br />
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Writing beginnings:</div>
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Whether you are beginning a magazine article, a short story,
or a book, the beginning must be superb.
A reader’s interest is captured within the first three pages of a
novel. If the author has lost her
interest in those first three pages, the reader will, most likely, not continue
reading.</div>
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1. The length of
every beginning is relative to the length of the whole piece. A short story that contains a thousand words
might have a beginning of 250 words or less.
An article for a magazine would have just a paragraph. A lengthy novel might have half a chapter
that serves as a beginning.</div>
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2. A beginning snags
the reader by its interest. Lure the
reader into your work with your enchanting beginning. Write for the highest interest possible.</div>
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3. What comprises a
high-interest beginning?</div>
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a. A vivid description of a character or
setting. Think about local color,
especially if your characters are folksy or belong to a particular cultural or
community group, such as the Amish or Pennsylvania Dutch. For setting: the Alpine region, a rainforest,
a beach, a desert, a jungle, an everyday living room wherein something or
someone unique is planning, devising, beginning some kind of master plan. And describe the setting using all of the
senses: sight, hearing, smelling, touching.
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b. Action/adventure
“in media res.” Put the reader right
into the middle of a murder, a rescue, thoughts about suicide, an event of some
kind, such as a wedding, a funeral, a telephone call with urgent news. Make your action immediate and so interesting
the reader will be unable to resist putting down your story.</div>
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c. Avoid philosophical thinking, analysis,
passive thought, monotonous dwelling on an issue, lecturing, proselytizing of
any kind. Avoid any issues that are
inherently boring or that would annoy a reader.
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d. Above all: be real. Use real, every day language. If using verbiage of a particular group, such
as the Pennsylvania Dutch, write with some dialect to the conversations. Narrative paragraphs should sound way
different from spoken words. Even
particular people within a book may speak differently and use particular
accents or expressions. Incorporate
dialect, accents, and habits of speech into a character’s direct quotes. </div>
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Avoiding
cursing just for its own sake will make your work sound hollow and unreal. People in dire and dangerous situations
swear, and there’s never a good way for good writers to get around this. Saying “Gosh!” when it’s more believable to
say “God!” is fake and phony. Never be a
phony with your reader, or you will lose her.
Don’t sugar-coat words like the “F” word—just say them when appropriate
and when no other word will do.
Sometimes beginnings, because they are intense, focused, action-packed,
will need some cussing.</div>
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Coming next week: How to build a believable character.</div>Gay L. Balliethttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13020274214614962128noreply@blogger.com0